Elena's Journey
by Parda
Summary: Elena's world is turned upside down when she loses everyone she loves in one horrible moment. With the help of Duncan, Connor, and Cassandra, Elena begins to rebuild her life. Co-written by Vi and Parda.
1. Going Down & Darkness

**Elena's Journey**

_by Vi and Parda - October 2011_

* * *

><p><em>The story starts just after this table of contents.<br>_

** 1. Going Down** - Elena's life is over  
><strong>1. Darkness<strong> - On the run in Minorca**  
>2. Day<strong> - visiting with Cassandra  
><strong>3. Chance Encounters<strong> - meeting the MacLeods  
><strong>4. Challenges<strong> - sparring with Connor  
><strong> 5. Coming Up<strong> - bringing up the plane  
><strong> 6. Moving On<strong> - saying goodbye  
><strong> 7. Letting Go<strong> - rendezvous with Duncan  
><strong> 8. Outback<strong> - going walkabout  
><strong> 9. Beginnings<strong> - getting a job  
><strong>10. Racing Time - <strong>at the riding stable  
><strong>11. Reaching Back<strong> - talking with Marcellino in Rome  
><strong>12. Incalzando<strong> - visiting old friends in London  
><strong>13. Del Capa al Coda<strong> - taking care of an old enemy  
><strong>14. Searching - <strong>finding Duncan again  
><strong>15. The Home Stretch - <strong>going home

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><p><strong>Prologue - Going Down<strong>

* * *

><p><em><strong>Saturday, 9 January 2044<strong>_

Twenty-five hundred meters above the Mediterranean Sea, the small plane's engines sputtered, coughed, and died.

Elena Duran-Ponti removed her headphones, and in the unnerving silence she heard Lorenzo mutter, "_Cazzo_."

Elena looked at her husband sharply. She'd never heard Lorenzo use that vulgar word in front of his mother, who was sitting just behind him in the four-passenger plane. As he turned back to look at the old lady then smiled weakly at Elena, the silent plane started a downward glide.

After he tried and failed to restart the engines, he said calmly, "Declare an emergency." The numbers on the altimeter flickered, getting faster and always going down.

The notes of Rachmaninoff's second piano concerto, soulfully played by Maestro Jardine, still came faintly from the discarded headphones as Elena picked up the plane's second headset and slipped it on. She pressed the radio's button for the emergency channel and spoke clearly into the mike. "Mayday. Mayday. Mayday," she said then gave their plane's call-sign and added, "Engines failed. Three onboard." They hadn't yet reached the Balearic Islands, but she wasn't sure how far they'd come. "Heading west. Landing on water between islands of Cerdeña and Menorca. Mayday."

"Set the transponder code to 7770," Lorenzo said next. "That will help them find us."

As she worked that device, a voice in her headset said calmly, "Understood. Sending help."

Elena peered ahead but saw only clouds. Maybe they were close enough to Menorca to land there, maybe on one of the beaches or close to shore. And there was an airport at the southern tip. Although there were no engine sounds, the rush of the wind enveloped them. The altimeter showed 1725 meters… 1721… 1716…

They broke cloud cover and she hoped… but all she could see was the unforgiving, cold, blue waters of the Mediterranean. At least there weren't too many waves. Not too many. Maybe they could land on the sea. Lorenzo was a good pilot. Maybe—and maybe they would crash, their plane would break up then sink, and the water was cold, and they were very far from any shore.

Damn. Nearly thirty-nine years. Elena had been with Lorenzo longer than with any other man, except for her own Immortal father. And they had been good years, too, full of laughter and dancing and loving and horses and yes, some fights, a little infidelity on his part, but a wonderful grown son who was healthy and—

"Lorenzo?" Gina Ponti's question was calm. Elena had never seen her mother-in-law lose her poise. Signora Ponti was a true aristocrat and proud of it.

"Mamma," he answered and spared her a backwards glance. He pointed with his chin, and Elena took three flotation devices from the side compartment then handed one back to her mother-in-law. "Please put that on," Lorenzo said.

"And please fasten your seat belt," Elena added, already putting on her own life vest.

Gina Ponti sat back with a sigh. She looked out the window at the approaching sea and squared her shoulders. "Does it matter?" she mused. The altimeter read 1019.

But he was already trying to start the engines. Again. The fuel gauge read past the half-way mark, so that wasn't the problem. The engines simply would not start. "I have no power," he said in frustration, then turned to Elena with a smile that was too bright. "Remind me to fire my airplane mechanic."

Elena held out Lorenzo's life vest, but now he was concentrating on landing the plane, his feet working the pedals, his hands on the yoke. Their flight instructor had said the way to land a plane was to make a controlled descent, slowing down gradually and leveling out just above the surface, until the wheels touched down on land. In other words, Elena thought, try to keep from landing as long as possible.

Land was the operative word. This was not land. They were not landing. They were ditching. Lorenzo obviously knew that too. "God help us," he whispered.

She touched his arm. "_Querido_."

Lorenzo smiled at his wife, a real smile this time, his own loving smile. "Tell Marcellino that I love him, and I approve of his fiancée."

"We'll both tell him," Elena said firmly.

"You were always my favorite," Gina said to her son.

"I know, Mamma," he answered his mother.

"Elena," Gina murmured.

Elena nodded at the old lady. If not real love, there was affection and respect in Elena's look. "Please put on your life vest, Mamma. And put your head down, between your knees. It's the safest way." She felt like a flight attendant.

And there were more duties to perform. Elena took off the headset and started gathering all the other loose items in the cabin: a pencil, her headphones, a bottle of water, Lorenzo's sunglasses. She stowed them all in the side compartment and latched it then pulled her seatbelt tight.

"_Ti voglio bene, Mamma_," Lorenzo said, looking over his shoulder quickly. His mother smiled at him then crossed herself and started praying softly. He turned his attention to Elena. "_Te amo, mi amor,"_ he said in Spanish, Elena's native tongue.

"_Mi vida,"_ she answered, wishing she could take his hands in hers, but he was still busy with the controls, trying to align the plane with the directions of the wave yet still keep their descent slow, so she settled for squeezing his arm. The altimeter showed 632.

Lorenzo, busy with flying, would not be able to assume the safe position, and he had no life vest on. Neither did the old lady, who hadn't put hers on, who hadn't put her head down, who was over eighty anyway. She'd never done anything Elena asked, and was not going to now, either. And it was the new year; the water was freezing.

Elena had the best odds, if any, of surviving the 'landing'. But Lorenzo, now semi-retired, still kept up his horseback riding, his weightlifting. Although his blond hair had turned to a golden ash color, he was still strong and virile at sixty-one. There was a chance he might live. Even Gina could survive. Help might arrive in time to pluck them from the frigid water. God was good, He was merciful. Of course He had His plans, and in His plans people died, but Elena could still pray, she could still hope. Her faith had always been all about hope.

"_Ayudanos, Dios mio_," she whispered then said to her husband, "If… I will never forget you or stop loving you, Lorenzo," she told him, not even knowing if he heard her, he was concentrating so hard on putting the plane down safely, on trying to keep his family alive.

The altimeter showed 92 meters… 67… 45…

At least we had a good family Christmas celebration in Rome, Elena thought, glancing at the antique emerald bracelet Lorenzo had gifted her on Three Kings Day. She and Lorenzo had celebrated their thirty-eighth anniversary, and their son had announced his engagement. Elena actually liked this girl. Elena sighed then leaned forward and tucked her head down.

The plane hit the water, skipping once, several times, like a rock along a pond. She lost count, she struck her head, the whole plane was shaking, something broke in her hip and she moaned. They hit the water again, harder this time. The plane nosed into the water and the tail rose precipitously, dangerously. Something hit her on the head as the plane shuddered then came to a halt, nose down, rocked slowly by the waves.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 1 - Darkness<strong>

* * *

><p><em><strong>Akademie der Sankte Hildegard, Austria<strong>_

"Let it ring," Connor murmured when the phone starting buzzing, and placed a drowsy yet still delightful kiss behind Cassandra's left ear, his beard tickling her neck.

"If I didn't want to answer it," Cassandra told him, as she turned to face him then placed her finger on his lips, "I would have turned it off when we went to bed." She usually did; she'd been awakened too many times by people who forgot about time zones. But ever since Duncan had sent word early on Saturday afternoon that Elena's family plane had gone down in the Mediterranean, Cassandra had been hoping for a call.

Connor rolled over on his back with a sigh, and Cassandra checked the time as she reached for her phone: seventeen minutes after midnight. Nearly thirty-six hours since Elena's plane had gone down. The caller ID read "_Estación de Autobuses de Mahón,_" and the bus station netport was voice only, no vid. "Laina Garrison," Cassandra said into the phone, giving the name she used in her current job: music teacher at a girls' boarding academy.

"Cassi?" said the voice on the phone.

"Elena! Thank goodness," Cassandra said with a surge of relief. The lights of Menorca's capital city of Mahon made a good beacon in the early winter darkness; Elena must have followed them in to shore. "She made land," Cassandra said to Connor, then went back to the phone. "How are—?"

"Who is with you?" Elena interrupted.

"Connor," Cassandra answered. Elena should know that.

"Oh. I—" Elena's voice shifted to an urgent whisper: "Cassi, I'm being hunted. _Un condenao pelon."_

Cassandra closed her eyes, her lips tightening in frustration at that bloody game. Either Elena had been monumentally unlucky in her place of landfall, or (more likely) this bald Immortal had heard of the plane crash and come hunting, like a shark following bloody chum. And he might not be the only one.

"Cass," Elena said, her breath coming quickly, sounding near panic, definitely afraid, "I can't—" Her laugh sounded more like a sob. "I survived the plane crash and the water, but I may not survive the night."

"_Si, viviras,_ _Elena_," Cassandra said firmly, speaking in Elena's native tongue and layering overtones of reassurance onto the words to calm and encourage her friend, because Cassandra was not going to lose anyone else to that pointless game, especially not this way: vulnerable, grief-stricken, defenseless. "_Elena,_ _os sabeis cuidar muy bien."_

Connor pushed himself up on his elbows at that, and Cassandra placed the phone between them so that he could hear, too.

"_Si_," Elena said, already sounding calmer. "_Lo se."_

"Mahon has quite a few sacred buildings," Cassandra told Elena, reminding the younger woman of a way to take care of herself. "There's a Gaian Temple to the south, and Santa Maria is near the harbor. Can you see any spires or towers from where you are?"

There was a long silence then Elena said, "Cassi, I _hate_ to run."

"Atta girl," Connor murmured under his breath.

Cassandra shot him an irritated look. Foolish bravado led to death. "Regrouping is not running," Cassandra told Elena firmly. Then Cassandra suddenly realized that Duncan would be spending the night in Mahon, after having searched the sea all day. He would help. "Elena, if you—"

"He's here," Elena interrupted and clicked off the phone.

Cassandra knew better than to press call-back. Elena didn't need the ringing of a phone to give away her position right now. Still, Cassandra glared at the phone in her hand, angry mostly at the Game and the Immortal hunter, but angry with Elena too. She should have gone to Holy Ground immediately. Foolish girl!

"She's having a bad day," Connor observed dryly.

"Yes, she is," Cassandra agreed, realizing how misplaced her irritation was. Getting cutting off in mid-sentence always annoyed her. Cassandra shook her head, then breathed out slowly and let the tension and the anger go. The game was the game, and there was nothing to be done about that. And Elena was Elena; her bravery and her stubbornness were part of her charm, and they had served her well for more than four hundred years.

She and Connor were alike in that, Cassandra thought fondly, though Cassandra would not tell either of them so.

"And she probably doesn't have a sword," Connor added, with his unique snort that combined understanding, resigned acceptance, and irritation all in one. "Call Duncan," Connor said.

Cassandra nodded; she had already turned on her phone. But Duncan didn't answer.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Mahon, Isle of Menorca<strong>_

When Elena had felt the approach of that damn bloodhound Immortal who'd been hunting her relentlessly for the past two hours, she had turned off the phone and left the bus station, walking rapidly past the array of statues that decorated the deserted plaza, shivering with the cold that had seeped into her bones during those hours in the dark waters of the Mediterranean. She crossed the street to reach a park with a grove of trees that provided some cover then paused there in the shadows, listening, waiting, hoping…

Then she heard the footsteps.

_Dios mio_, he was so close! Elena had a moment of blind panic, her muscles tensing to run, just run. But she didn't, and the footsteps stopped; then she heard voices: two men.

He was talking to someone. A reprieve. She had to get away. Holy Ground was a good idea. Elena was scared; this Immortal might have made a special trip to the island of Menorca just for her head. He was everywhere at once, she couldn't seem to lose him, and she wasn't ready to fight him. She wanted to just make it stop, even for a few days, so she could 'regroup.' But it wasn't going to happen. The game wouldn't stop just because she was grieving, because she didn't want to play, because she felt so alone.

She'd meant to call Cassandra from a hotel as soon as she got to Menorca, but then this persistent Immortal with the chilling eyes had appeared, right in the lobby, and there had been no time. Now that it might be too late, Elena had called to let Cassandra know…. well, maybe to say goodbye.

So. Her choices: Keep running. Holy Ground. Or face this bastard who was hunting her.

Elena knew what her father would say: _"!Fajate, Elena!"_ Fight! She shouldn't have come to the capital, but she knew why she had come; the people. She needed to see them, to hear them talking, singing, laughing; she needed to smell them, because nothing in her long life, she had recently discovered, was more lonely than floating out at sea, in a life vest, in pitch darkness, alone.

But there were _too many_ people, and reporters, all looking for a story about the Pontis. She should just have gone west toward the airport. Damn it, Lorenzo! She sobbed softly. You landed that plane! On the sea! It should have worked. You should be alive! We should both be home right now, snuggling in bed. She shivered, hugging herself then realized how vulnerable she was. Her enemy was still nearby, and she wasn't thinking clearly, coherently. It was going to get her killed. And she absolutely wanted to live.

Holy Ground. Everybody went to Holy Ground at some point. She had, many times. No shame in that. She moved silently through the trees, blessing the city fathers for their urban planning, then crossed a narrow street to reach a boulevard that provided a better view—and, unfortunately, a blast of icy winter wind. Elena ducked into a doorway and peered around the corner. Down the hill, close to the harbor, she could see a tall octagonal tower topped with a cross. She'd find safety there. And comfort. Maybe there was a priest she could talk to. Sanctuary. It was a good thought.

But for how long? An Immortal could stand outside a church forever, patiently waiting, keeping her trapped inside. Helpless. Afraid. Waiting to be beheaded.

No. But she could not fucking fight. _Could not._

She had escaped from a watery grave with her sword. It was there to be used. She drew it; it felt good, right, in her hand. But she couldn't use it. She… Not now. _!Dios mio!_ She took a few deep, calming breaths, centered herself, made her decision…

Then, from the grove of trees, she heard the unmistakable clang of swords.

More than one Immortal then; two had come for her. And they'd met each other. Maybe it was a coincidence or God's providence. Elena didn't care. They were fighting, and this was her golden opportunity to simply leave. Cassandra would leave. So would Methos—

But then Elena remembered her duel at a Paris airport; Methos hadn't left then. He'd gone towards the sounds of the swordfight, he'd helped her when Simms had eviscerated her, stayed with her while she died then came back. Even Methos. And Duncan MacLeod wouldn't leave. Neither would Connor MacLeod. Or Miyu, her aikido sensei. Elena shook her head.

Steeling herself, keeping her sword in front of her in a classic defensive position, led by instinct and habit, maybe even gutsiness, she went back to the park towards the swordfight, away from the safety of Holy Ground.

They were very close. She knew they could certainly sense her. But she also knew, from long experience, that in the middle of a fight they wouldn't—couldn't—pay attention to another Immortal.

In the shadows under the trees there was very little light, but she could just make out their silhouettes. She took one glance around then moved behind one of the biggest trees, replaying what she'd just seen. Two men, one clearly bigger, broader. The bigger man, his shoulders, his body language, his grunts of exertion as he fought, he was clearly, oh, so definitely, Duncan MacLeod. Duncan! _!Madre de Dios!_

Elena Duran-Ponti had been cold for the last two days—first in the freezing waters of the Mediterranean, then in the frigid _tramentana_ winds over Menorca, which seemed to penetrate the woolen coat she'd bought and all the layers underneath. A minute ago she thought she'd never be warm again.

Now, as she pressed herself against the rough trunk of a tree, she felt a heat begin under her belly and spread like fire, up her body then down to her toes. "!_Ay,_ Lorenzo!" she gasped in dismay. How could she? How could she feel this need, this… lust… from just seeing, just looking at Duncan MacLeod, with her beloved Lorenzo so recently gone?

So what if Duncan had come to find her, to help her, and was now fighting for her. She still shouldn't…

Damn, after so many years, decades, he was still there, loving her! The heat she felt was joined by guilt, betrayal, self-disgust—and at that moment she realized the noise had stopped and the fight was over.

Duncan! she thought, worried now for him. What if… She chanced another quick look around the tree. Duncan was facing away from her, braced to receive the Quickening, his katana held high. He'd won_; !gracias a Dios! _But after he took the Quickening… he would be oh so ready and she…

She had to leave. Now.

Elena ran. She hadn't been ready to face an Immortal enemy, but she could have done it, if she'd absolutely had to.

But she absolutely couldn't face Duncan MacLeod.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Akademie der Sankte Hildegard, Austria<strong>_

Connor's phone began buzzing at 2:27 in the morning, and both he and Cassandra woke immediately. "Who is it?" she asked, sitting up and pulling the blankets with her.

He glanced at the ID display. "A hotel with a Spanish name." Connor clicked the phone on and said, "Hello."

"Connor," came the familiar tones of his kinsman.

"Duncan," he replied, and one small knot of worry deep inside him untied. Beside him, Cassandra let out a slow breath. "Elena made land," Connor said immediately, knowing Duncan would be worrying about her.

"Thank God," Duncan said with relief then added with the emphasis born from recent personal experience, "That water is damn cold."

"We've been trying to call you," Connor told him.

"My phone got fried," Duncan explained.

"Ah." Quickenings did that to electronics. Connor wondered who it had been, but it wasn't smart to ask for names on the phone, especially not the name of a person whose body the police were likely to find. Duncan would let him know later.

Duncan snorted in disgust. "He told me that since he got to the island first, he had priority."

Cassandra and Connor exchanged glances at the arrogance. Well, that Immortal wouldn't be claiming anything now. "Bald?" Connor asked.

"Yeah," Duncan replied, and the word ended on a questioning note.

"Elena called just after midnight," Connor explained. "She told us she was being 'followed' by a_ pelon._ There could be others," Connor warned.

"I know," Duncan said grimly. "Where was she?"

Cassandra held out her phone, showing Connor the ID. "She called from _Estación de Autobuses de Mahón_," Connor told Duncan.

There was a pause, then Duncan said carefully, "I'm surprised we haven't run into each other yet."

Connor translated that to: Elena and Duncan and this _pelon_ had all been at the bus station (site of a recent killing), but Elena obviously hadn't gotten close enough during the fight or afterwards to realize that one of the Immortals she was sensing was a friend. "I think she's defenseless," Connor said, using that bland word in place of "sword" or "weapon", since those would trigger alerts in the scanners.

Duncan cursed softly. "I'll find her."

Cassandra held out her hand, and Connor gave her the phone. "Duncan," she said, "stay in touch. Elena should call me soon, if she's all right. I'll tell her the name of your hotel."

"Thank you," Duncan said then ended the call.

As Connor took the phone back, he asked Cassandra, "You think Elena will call you? Or anybody?"

Cassandra replied grimly, "She'd better." At Connor's small grin, she demanded, "What?"

He shrugged. "This reminds me of staying up late with Alex when the kids were teenagers, waiting for them to call or come home."

Cassandra's smile mingled amusement and weariness. "I'm too old for this."

"So are Duncan and Elena," Connor retorted.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Continued in Chapter 2 - Day, wherein Elena shares her story<em>**

* * *

><p>Translations (Spanish and Italian):<p>

_Ti voglio bene_ and _te amo_ – I love you

_Mi amor _and _querido _-beloved

_Ayudanos,_ Dios mio – God help us

_Un condenao pelon_ – a damn bald man

_Si viviras_ – yes, you will survive

_Os sabeis cuidar muy bien_ – you know very well how to take care of yourself

_Lo se _– I know

_Dios mio, madre de Dios, gracias a Dios _– My God, Mother of God, thank God

* * *

><p><em>For more stories with Elena, look for Vi Moreau on the web, or read these stories on Parda's account on Fanfiction DOT net.<em>

- **Invisible Darkness** - With the help of Methos, Elena examines her conscience

- **Hope Remembered III: Confidante** - Elena and Cassandra compares notes on Methos and both MacLeods

- **Hope Triumphant II: Sister** (Chapter 2 "Dramatic License") - Elena and Cassandra go on a cruise

- **The Only Game in Town** - Elena goes hunting in Connor's hometown

Del Capa al Coda


	2. Day

**Elena's Journey **by Vi and Parda

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 2 - Day<strong>

* * *

><p><em><strong>Austrian Alps<strong>_

The horse-drawn carriage creaked as it went up the steep hill, and Elena sighed as she looked around. Beautiful mountains. Cold, pristine snow. Evergreens. Gorgeous scenery and the brightness of a new morning. The incredible splendor of the Alps, all wasted on her. She had bought some clothes, two scarves, gloves, a hat, all for the frozen weather, at a chic village shop at the base of the mountain. Still, her coat felt too thin, and the wind sank right down into her bones. She shouldn't be here. She should be in the south of Spain, baking in the sun, riding her mare alongside Lorenzo then having a delicious dinner, some nice _rioja_, and bed. Bed with Lorenzo. Instead she was here in frigid Austria with people she didn't even like.

No, that wasn't fair and it wasn't true. She did like them. They were 'family,' of sorts, and one didn't choose family, did one? One just appreciated them.

Even though Elena hadn't told anyone she was coming, Cassandra was waiting inside the gatehouse of the ancient castle that now served as a girls' boarding school, started by the Phinyx Foundation only fifteen years before. As soon as Elena stepped down from the carriage, Cassandra gathered Elena into a hug. "I am so sorry, Elena," Cassandra said softly. "Lorenzo was a magnificent man."

Elena took a deep, shuddering breath. This was just what she needed to hear. "_Gracias, mi vida_. I was right to come here," she said then added, "Look, I know I told you from the airport that I was going to a convent in France, but—"

Cassandra dismissed the explanation with a wave of her hand. "You are always welcome, _amiga,_" she said kindly

Elena didn't just appreciate these people. She loved them. Some of them, anyway. Cassandra, who would always be there for her, as long as Elena didn't make the mistake she'd made only once before and attack Cassandra with a sword.

Her sword. Elena had her sword with her, of course, in a long duffel bag hanging on her shoulder, and the driver had placed Elena's small suitcase and several shopping bags on the bench. Now he was holding the carriage door as two teenagers in dark blue cloaks climbed in, chattering to each other in Italian.

"I love riding in a horse-drawn carriage," Elena said, stepping forward to say goodbye to the nearest mare, Anna, who remembered Elena from her visit eighteen months ago. Elena rubbed Anna's nose, and the animal responded by turning liquid, dark brown eyes to Elena and snuffling. "_Que linda estas_, Anna," Elena murmured, wishing she had an apple, as she always did in at her villa in Andalucia, though of course you didn't feed a horse who was under harness. She exchanged friendly nods with the driver; then he climbed to the seat and picked up the reins, clicked to his horses and started them down the hill.

"The horses add to the school's charm; parents like that," Cassandra answered as she picked up Elena's suitcase and shopping bags. "Also, we don't have to use our fuel ration cards, and the horses' 'exhaust' is good for our gardens. Now let's get in from the cold," she said, for though they were sheltered from the wind by thick stone walls, the air was bitter. Cassandra herself was wearing a heavy wool cloak in patterns of red and white, and she didn't look the least bit cold.

I need more layers, Elena thought as she followed Cassandra up a very long stairway next to the castle wall.

As they started the climb, Cassandra looked at the duffel bag with a practiced eye. "Found a new sword?"

"No," Elena answered.

Cassandra lifted an eyebrow, but said only, "I see you did find some new clothes. The girls keep the shops in the village in business."

Elena nodded but said nothing, and they climbed the rest of the way in silence, needing their breath for all ninety-nine steps.

Cassandra pulled open a heavy wooden door, and they went inside a corridor of stone. It wasn't warm, but at least it wasn't frigid. "Espresso?" Cassandra asked. "Something to eat? And would you like to talk or sleep?"

"Coffee, please, but no food. And talk, yes, that would be good."

"I have coffee—and milk, I know you like _café con leche_—in my room," Cassandra said. "Your room will be down the hall from mine, just as before." She led the way up a flight of stairs, through a set of enormous double doors, and into another long corridor, this one with windows to pierce the gloom. As they passed yet another set of doors, Cassandra said, "The dojo's down that hallway, as I'm sure you remember."

Elena remembered. She'd logged a lot of practice hours in that room when she'd visited a year and a half ago. But dojos were the last thing on her mind. Dojos meant swords. And even as she carried her sword close to her body, her own version of a security blanket, she knew, swords were not what she wanted to think about right now.

Somewhere a bell rang, and suddenly the halls were thronged with girls, all robed in blue but with scarves striped in different color pairs: red with gold, green with white, and yellow with black. "I feel like I'm in Hogwarts," Elena confided. That series of books and videos set in a magical wizarding school had only become more popular these last fifty years.

"A lot of the girls say that, and they like to call themselves witches, too," Cassandra answered with a smile. "So we picked our house colors to match." The girls started to disappear, and by the time the bell rang again they were all gone.

Elena and Cassandra climbed another flight of stairs and went down another hall then Cassandra unlocked a door. "Your same room," Cassandra said, opening an antique black wardrobe and placing the suitcase and the shopping bags inside, then setting the key on the oak desk in front of the tall window. "There's no one in the room next door, so you'll have the washroom to yourself. Oh, there's a new netport in here," she said, opening a desk drawer, "if you want to contact Miyu or Duncan or check the news."

Elena had already contacted Miyu and absolutely did _not _want to call Duncan. She didn't care about the news. She took the long duffle off her shoulder, put it on the bed in the curtained alcove, and took off her outer layers. Then she looked over the familiar room. It was small and plain, but certainly adequate, almost soothing. Except for the indoor plumbing and the electrical items, it again reminded her of her convent cell from many centuries ago. "Thank you," she said.

"Not at all. I'll go make the coffee, while you get settled," Cassandra said. "Would you like me to come back here with it, or do you want to come to my room when you're ready? I'm still six doors down, on the right."

"This is fine," Elena said. She didn't want to move anymore.

After a moment, Cassandra said, "We'll sit on the bed and talk, like old times." She hugged Elena again before leaving the room, saying, "I'll be back soon."

Elena slid her sword under the bed then went into the bathroom to wash her face. She looked at herself in the mirror. Her left eye looked puffy, while her high-tech artificial right eye, which had surprisingly survived her 'swim,' was clear and still worked perfectly, including shedding 'real' artificial tears. She took the comb from the toiletry kit next to the sink then realized her hair hadn't grown out enough to even comb yet.

Just last year she'd totally shaved her head, the better to accommodate that terrible gray wig she'd worn to make her look older. At least she'd never wear that again. Small mercies. When the stubble had started growing she'd colored it a bright yellow. That color, combined with her American Indian complexion, made for a… unique… look. Lorenzo had liked it. "You're my Amazon woman," he'd told her. And he'd let her attack him, just like an Amazon would. Then he would surrender… She sighed. That part of her life, the part with Lorenzo Ponti, was over.

Under the woolen sweater and slacks she'd bought just that morning, she looked thin—she must have lost three kilos in the last four harrowing days—but she was still mostly lean muscle. No paparazzi, and she had seen many, could possibly mistake her now for the staid, sixty-seven-year-old Elena Duran-Ponti.

She looked longingly at the small bathtub. A hot soak would work wonders. But first she wanted, needed to talk, to unburden herself, to share part of her nightmare with someone who would understand, who would listen. Cassandra was good at listening, Elena remembered.

Cassandra returned with a coffee tray. She and Elena kicked off their shoes and sat cross-legged on the bed, facing each other, the way they used to do nearly fifty years ago in Argentina, back when they had each been battling nightmares from their past, drinking too much (not just coffee), sleeping a little, and talking a lot.

Time to talk again. But first, coffee. Cassandra poured and stirred, then handed Elena a steaming mug. "_Gracias._" Elena took several swallows, filling her belly with warmth and the Latin American version of comfort food.

She was still savoring the flavor when Cassandra said, "Duncan was on duty at the Search-and-Rescue station that day and saw the official report come in. When they reported no survivors, he knew you were either trapped in the plane or in the water. He went straightaway to look for you." She shuddered. "We all know how cold water can be."

Elena shuddered too. "Beyond cold!" Elena agreed. "Didn't Dante say the deepest level of hell was full of ice?" She took another warming sip of coffee. "I drowned many times and died of that thermic…"

"Hypothermia," Cassandra supplied. "Drowning at sea is a terrible way to die," she said, shaking her head and shuddering again. She met Elena's eyes, saying sympathetically, "Then, after such an ordeal, to finally reach land, only to be hunted…"

"Yes," Elena said slowly. "He hunted me, and I ran. I guess… I guess I panicked." She made a sound half laugh, half sob. "Not my finest hour. And Duncan—Duncan's a good friend."

"Yes, he is," Cassandra agreed, looking inward to some memory of her own before looking at Elena again. "After searching for you all day, Duncan killed the Immortal who was hunting you."

"I know," Elena said quietly. "I saw him."

"You saw Duncan?" Cassandra repeated, surprised. "Fighting?"

"Yes. But…" Elena didn't want to talk about this, not with Cassandra, not at all. "I left before the Quickening, so he didn't see me. I couldn't…" There was no way to finish that sentence without giving herself away.

"I see," Cassandra said.

Elena seriously doubted that. Even if Cassandra was sleeping with Connor these days, she wasn't a passionate person. Cassandra didn't know what it was to have hot blood surging, burning, to really lust, to pant like an animal, for a man—even if it was the wrong man, even if she shouldn't be feeling these feelings.

"You need time," Cassandra said next.

"Yes," Elena agreed, seizing on that. "I am grateful for what Duncan did, but I'm not ready to see him. All right?"

"Of course," Cassandra said then offered, "Would you like me to let him know?"

That would be easiest, Elena knew. But Duncan deserved better. "No," she said slowly. "I'll tell him." Not on the phone and certainly not in a video call. She'd write. "But Cassandra, I didn't come all this way to talk about Duncan. Not today."

"Not today," Cassandra agreed. "Today we talk about Lorenzo."

"Yes," Elena agreed, feeling the tears again. She took a deep breath and began. "This last week has felt like a dream. Or more like a nightmare." With the tip of one finger, she traced the exquisite emerald bracelet Lorenzo had gifted her on Three Kings Day. His last gift to her. "We were flying back from Christmas in Rome," she said. "Lorenzo was piloting. Then…" She shook her head in frustration and tried again. "We had fuel. The engines just—

Cassandra nodded, taking Elena's hands in her own again and squeezing. "Tell me," Cassi said, her voice warm and encouraging, sympathetic. Loving.

Elena took another deep breath and for the first time, spoke of that day.

* * *

><p><em><strong>In the Water<strong>_

When Elena opened her eyes, her hip was on fire and she couldn't move her right arm. She could feel the plane rocking, floating on the water, but still nose-down. The floor was tilted and her seatbelt dug into her hipbones. She curled herself erect, her whole belly throbbing from the seatbelt, and looked over at her husband. Lorenzo was still strapped in his seat, his head down at a strange angle. A deadly, unnatural angle. No way he was still alive—no way. Oh, God, he was dead. She leaned toward him, touched his face. His head lolled in the opposite direction.

"No!" she whimpered. Lorenzo, _mi vida_! She put her hand over her mouth to try to keep the sobs inside herself. She was afraid if she started, she'd never be able to stop, and she was still floating on the high seas inside an object that was not designed to float. She took a deep shuddering breath, calming herself then made her decision.

With Lorenzo dead, she decided she would "die" too. It was past time. Seventeen years ago, when her public age was fifty, she'd had to 'retire' to a villa in Spain to get away from the ever-present paparazzi. Even with makeup and a wig, she was past fooling the reporters by then. She couldn't be found here; she had to abandon the plane. Abandon her husband. And her life.

Taking a few extra deep calming breaths, Elena unhooked her seatbelt and reached for the strap in the ceiling with her left hand, then painfully lifted herself out of the seat, trying to get her feet under her, hissing in pain. She kept hold of the strap—her hip was not going to support her and the floor was crooked—then heard a noise behind her.

She turned, her hip creaking in agony—and looked straight down into Gina Ponti's brown eyes. The old lady was lying on the floor, her head toward the cockpit, her right foot wedged under her seat. There were flecks of blood on Gina's cheeks, maybe a collapsed lung, surely severe internal injuries. And her back was twisted. She wasn't moving from the neck down, not at all.

The old lady was alive, although not for long. _Carajo_, Elena had almost forgotten her mother-in-law was in the plane.

"Lorenzo?" Gina asked.

Elena immediately decided her mother-in-law, on her deathbed, deserved the truth. "He's gone," she answered, and Gina nodded resolutely, even as her eyes welled with tears. Elena felt her own tears start again. But Elena also knew the Pontis were strong Catholics. "You'll be with him soon, Mamma, in glory, at the feet of our Lord Jesus Christ."

"You're right," Gina agreed, startling Elena in spite of the situation. "At least he will not drown in the cold black waters," Gina wheezed.

There was Gina's fear, Elena realized, although from her labored breathing Elena guessed -—hoped—Gina would be dead before she had a chance to drown. But the plane was sinking, water was already seeping into the cockpit, and once it submerged Elena wouldn't be able to get the door or a window open against the weight of the sea, not until the plane filled with water and the pressure was equalized. By that time she, Elena, would drown in the cold dark waters, at the bottom of the Mediterranean. Probably several times. Or she might not be able to get out at all…

At least the healing was starting, and soon she would be able to move easily. She stripped off her hated wig and ran a hand through the short blonde stubble underneath. Blue lights swam around Elena's hip, her arm, her head, bringing tingling warmth and blessed well-being.

Then from the floor, Gina asked, "What is that? Those lights?" The old lady's eyes were full of fear and grief, but the spark of intelligence was not dimmed, not one bit. "Who… what are you?" she demanded. "A demon?"

_Cono_, this was not the place for an explanation of Immortality. Elena didn't have time for any of this; she needed to get out of the sinking coffin. She had to; although she couldn't—wouldn't—leave Gina Ponti alone in her last moments. "No, I'm no demon," Elena said, laboriously crouching down in the narrow space between the seats and gently stroking the other woman's white hair. "I'm your daughter, for thirty-eight years."

"_Si_," Gina agreed then weakly added, "You loved my son with a passion."

Elena found herself crying again. She let the warm tears fall. "We both did."

Her husband's mother nodded slowly then said, "Perhaps then… you were his angel."

Elena barely heard that last improbable compliment, the voice was so weak. Then Gina closed her eyes, each breath a painful wheeze.

The plane shifted, the metal creaking and groaning, and tilted even more. Water sloshed back and forth on the floor; it had already covered the foot controls in the cockpit. There was little time. Elena moved back to the front of the plane and dug into the side compartment. Her headphones were still playing Rachmaninoff's concerto, the final cadenza. Elena ignored the beautiful music and grabbed the bottle of water and the emergency kit. Her waterproof pouch with money, two different passports (one for Elena Duran-Ponti and one for Luz Marina Gutierrez), and bank cards was already wrapped around her waist.

Elena reached into the overhead compartment and grabbed her sword, sheathed and in a soft leather case. If it became too heavy, she'd take it off and let it sink. But if she could salvage it, she would. This particular sword had been a gift, and it meant a lot to her.

While she waited for the old lady to die, Elena used the knife from the kit to cut out the GPS locator from her life vest. Because Elena Duran-Ponti would not be rescued today. Her body would never be found. But Elena didn't fancy braving the cold waters of the Mediterranean with only a seat cushion for help. She took off her shoes and put on her life vest, then placed the sword on her back and lashed it to her. The water bottle and emergency kit were tied to her belt and tucked inside her shirt.

Gina was still breathing. Elena couldn't leave the old woman to drown, and though Elena had, sometimes, felt the urge to kill her interfering and controlling mother-in-law, she'd certainly never seriously considered it. Not the woman who had raised her wonderful Lorenzo.

Then Elena took another look at the water. Outside, it was lapping at the windscreen. Inside, it had nearly reached Gina's head. Elena wouldn't let the old lady drown, either. If she absolutely had to, she would kill Gina. At this point it would be an act of mercy. But thankfully, the death rattle soon came, and Gina Ponti went to meet her son at the foot of the heavenly throne.

Moving to her husband, Elena touched Lorenzo's head gently and kissed him one last time. "_Que Dios los guarde_," Elena murmured to them both.

Now. Her hip felt mostly good, her arm was totally healed. She opened the door, and let the sea water rush in. As the plane lurched beneath her, she lunged for the open air and daylight, and braved the cold waters of the Mediterranean Sea.

* * *

><p><em><strong>In Elena's Room<strong>_

Elena stopped talking and reached for her cup. The coffee was only lukewarm. She drank it anyway.

"That water was very cold," Cassandra said, prompting her to finish the story.

"And I'm sure I felt a shark or something rub against me. In the night," Elena said swallowing in remembered terror. "Anyway, I swam and floated and drifted eventually to shore." Cassandra gave her an encouraging smile. "It wasn't too far, I guess," Elena said, "although it seemed forever." Too far for their plane, though. Too far for Lorenzo.

"I kept my sword," Elena offered next, holding onto that one good thing. Cassandra nodded, not smiling, and Elena felt her tears well up again. She'd kept her sword and lost her husband. "I would have stayed, if he'd been alive," she whispered. "I wouldn't have left him. I didn't want to leave him."

"I know," Cassandra said softly. "Lorenzo was a magnificent man. You loved him."

"I did." Elena nodded fiercely. "I do. _Dios mio_, Cassi, I miss him so much, and now he's lost, and I expected to spend a little more time with him, just a few more years, he was still strong…" She shrugged then sobbed once. "Now he's in that cold, dark grave!"

She shuddered again then started to shiver all over. Cassandra pulled a blanket over both of them then wrapped her arms about Elena and held her as she cried.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Continued in Chapter 3 - "Chance Encounters" wherein Elena deals with the MacLeods<strong>_

Translations (Spanish):

_Rioja _– a red wine

_Que linda estas _– how pretty you are

_Café con leche – _milk with espresso and sugar


	3. Chance Encounters

**Elena's Journey**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 3: Chance Encounters<strong>

* * *

><p>After Cassandra had left, an exhausted Elena took a long hot soak in the tub. In spite of the strong coffee, she then slept peacefully, feeling safe for the first time in days.<p>

When she finally awoke it was late afternoon, and she was ravenous. Good. For her, hunger was a sign of improved spirits. When she was truly miserable she stopped eating. And started drinking. Heavily. But she felt no need for alcohol at this time. Another good thing.

As agreed, Elena called Cassandra on the phone. "I'm awake," Elena said. "And starving."

"I'm glad to hear that," Cassandra replied with sincerity, for she'd been with Elena through some of those not-eating-but-drinking times. "Shall I come meet you at your room?"

"No need, thank you. I'm sure you're busy. Can I just get something from the kitchens?"

"The dining hall opens to the students at five, but teachers and guests can go in early. If anyone asks, just give them my name: Laina Garrison," Cassandra replied.

Elena left her sword under her bed. This was a fortress. Unless an enemy Immortal came with an army and high explosives he wouldn't get in. And she trusted the two Immortals here.

The dining hall, Elena remembered, was on the ground floor of the main wing of the ancient castle, not far from where she and Cassandra had first entered. Elena looked at the map on the wall then set out to retrace her path and reacquaint herself with the fortress.

The halls were long and the staircases many. Going around a corner, Elena nearly collided with a middle-aged woman with short gray hair, who stopped so abruptly that a package slid out of her arms. She had bags slung over each shoulder as well. "Perdon," Elena said, bending down to pick the package up from the floor.

"My fault," the other woman said. "I go too fast."

"So do I," Elena said, straightening. "My father always told me to slow down."

"So did mine," the woman said with a rueful smile. But as she took the package from Elena's hand, her smile disappeared. "Elena?"

"My name is Luz," Elena corrected immediately. "Luz Marina Gutierrez." But then Elena actually looked at the woman and recognized her as Sara, the daughter of Connor Macleod. Elena had last seen her over ten years ago, when they had been discussing financing for the movie about Nzinga, the Angolan queen. Sara's hair had been much longer then, without a touch of gray. Well, Elena looked different too, including the hair.

"Luz," Sara repeated, and Elena didn't miss the tiny irritated grimace or impatient shrug at the new name. "What are you doing here?" Sara asked in confusion.

Elena burst into tears.

"Oh, blessed earth," Sara muttered, then awkwardly took hold of Elena's sleeve and led her to a bench to sit down.

Sara walked over to a window, probably to call Cassandra, but Elena, embarrassed, called, "Sara, don't."

Sara turned back, looking just as suspiciously reluctant to come any closer as she had at the age of ten, when Elena had first met Connor's daughter in Edinburgh. Elena had been hunting then, looking for Peter Shaw, an Immortal who had beaten Lorenzo bloody over a gambling debt. Over Lorenzo's strong objections, Elena had followed Shaw to Scotland, prepared to fight to the death. But even after an unpleasant meeting with Shaw, Elena had decided not to fight, mostly because Lorenzo didn't want her to. He'd wanted her to come home and adopt his soon-to-be-born child. After some soul-searching, she'd agreed, and together they had raised a wonderful son, Roberto Marcello Ponti.

Thirty-nine marvelous years, and the best family Elena had ever had. Now that family was gone: her husband dead, her son off limits…

"Sara," Elena called again, and Sara came over slowly then sat on the far end of the bench. Elena took a deep breath and explained, "I lost my husband."

"He left you?"

"No! He died. In a plane crash, last Saturday."

"Oh," Sara said, and had the decency to look embarrassed. "I'm so sorry, Elena. I had no idea."

"My mother-in-law and my husband and I all went down in the Mediterranean. It's been all over the news." Those damn paparazzi. Ghouls.

"I've been on a business trip in Japan," Sara explained then took her own deep breath and added, "And my husband left me, so… when I hear that phrase, that's what I think of."

"Oh." Elena hadn't heard about that. "I'm sorry."

Sara shrugged. "It's been three years. I'm coping. So," she said, meeting Elena's eyes, "you're here to talk with Cassandra."

"Yes."

Sara gave her a crooked grin. "I knew you weren't here to talk with my dad."

Elena smiled for the first time since the plane accident. She hadn't run across Connor yet, but it would be all right. She was here to see Cassandra, not Connor. And she'd been welcomed. There should be no trouble with the Highlander. And if he made Cassi happy—Elena noticed Sara intently studying her expression and came back to the moment. A thousand retorts came into Elena's head, but all she said to Sara was, "No."

Sara nodded. "He doesn't like you either."

"It's—He can be complicated," Elena said, "and I'm not the easiest person… He has helped in the past, though. We're not enemies," she finished lamely.

"I know," Sara said. "Mom told us you get on each other's nerves. And when I was ten, he told my brother and me that you were trouble, and we were to stay away from you."

"And he told me to stay away from you," Elena said. In very strong terms. During that visit to Edinburgh, Connor had promised to take Elena's head if she came near his family, and she always took Connor MacLeod's threats very seriously. "But twenty years ago, he said I could work with you when we did the movie projects."

"I know," Sara said again. "We had a discussion. I told him I wasn't a child anymore."

Elena knew Connor was still protective. Sara would always be his daughter, no matter what age she was. Elena asked, "What about your daughter, Alia? A teenager now, right?"

"Alea," Sara said, pronouncing it with the stress on the lee. "She's nearly seventeen. She's here at the school. So is her brother, Will." Before Elena could say anything to that, Sara warned her, "Alea and Will don't know. About Immortality, or the Game, or that 'Sensei Mike' is their grandfather. And Cassandra is 'Sister Laina' to them."

"And I'll be Luz Marina Gutierrez, one of Sister Laina's old friends, here for a visit." In a quieter tone Elena added, "I can keep this secret, Sara. My own son is thirty-six, and he doesn't know." Lorenzo had insisted on keeping their son in the dark about Immortality, but if Connor had made it work with his children—

"Your son doesn't know," Sara repeated slowly, interrupting Elena's musings. "So now he thinks you're dead," she said bluntly. "Which is why you have a new name, and why you're here with Cassandra, instead of with your son as he buries his parents and his grandmother."

"I should be with him," Elena said, swallowing painfully. "I want to be. But Elena Duran-Ponti was sixty-seven," she explained. "I 'died' in that plane crash, too."

"Right," Sara said, standing up. "Eventually, you have to leave." Then she added, more to herself than to Elena, "My father died at sea, too."

Elena remembered hearing the news about that, ten years ago. Connor and Duncan had been sailing around the world together, and they had planned their disappearance at sea, taking a lifeboat with water and food, unlike her, seeing her husband dead, freezing to death in the pitch blackness and drowning over and over…

But she could clearly see Sara's hurt, even after all these years. So instead of trying to explain, Elena said, "Well, I hope to meet your son and daughter while I'm here." And, she thought, I also hope Connor will let me talk to his grandchildren.

After Sara continued on her way with all her packages and bags, Elena set out once again to find a snack. This was Austria, which meant rye bread, sausages, potatoes. Maybe strudel. Her mouth was watering as she neared the dining hall; but then she sensed an Immortal, which slowed her down slightly. It wasn't Cassandra, Elena knew, which meant it must be her time for meeting MacLeods. But this one, Connor… did she want to see him? Yes. She wasn't running anymore.

She took a deep breath and entered the dining hall. Nothing but rows of long wooden tables and empty chairs. Connor, she sensed, was in one of the small, private dining rooms along the sides. She opened the door built under a wide brick arch, and saw Connor sitting at a table with his back to the wall. He stood as she came into the room.

His hair style was different—longer than she remembered, braided in the back, and he wore a neatly clipped beard—but everything else about him was familiar—the grey eyes, the serious expression, and the way he moved, lithe and… well… deadly. Always. She tensed ever so slightly as he came directly to her and held out both his hands. She looked at them for a moment then grasped them in her own.

"I'm sorry for your loss, Elena," he said, and though those same five words were said often and by many people, when Connor MacLeod, a man who had buried three wives, said them with such earnestness and called her by name, they brought her to tears.

"Gracias," she replied.

"I liked Lorenzo," he added, direct as always, and kind now, too.

Elena nodded and closed her eyes. Connor and Lorenzo had met only once, nearly four decades before in Edinburgh. Connor and his wife Alex had sat with Elena's young husband, waiting hopefully for Elena to come back from her meeting—and possible fight to the death—with Peter Shaw.

Elena let the tears fall unabashedly. "Lorenzo told me he was glad you were not my enemy," she said, smiling.

"I'm glad, too," Connor agreed. He squeezed her hands lightly and pointed to a chair directly across from his. Elena wiped her face as she sat. Then her gaze went to the plates on the table. Two had only crumbs, but one still had several Austrian pastries—were those apple strudels?—on it.

He chuckled and pushed the plate of goodies toward her. There was also a pot of coffee on the table, and he left the room briefly. When he returned he had milk and sugar and a second mug and spoon. Elena had already consumed one of the delightfully light pastries.

"Glad to see you're hungry," he said.

She nodded, swallowed then added milk and sugar to her coffee. "I'm not feeling bitter, or full of revenge this time, just very… very sad," she explained. "There were no Immortals involved, no kidnappings, no murder. Just a terrible accident that happens to normal people."

Connor nodded in understanding, and Elena remembered that his second wife—Brenda, her name had been—had died in a car crash. He took another strudel.

"But… you know, Connor, Lorenzo landed that plane. On the water. Cono, he landed it!" Elena exclaimed, waving her spoon for emphasis. "You're a pilot—you know how hard that is!"

"I do."

"He should have survived! We should be together now—!"

Connor was silent, studying her in that way he had, but his eyes were soft, not judging.

Elena took a deep breath, composing herself. Lorenzo hadn't survived, they weren't together, they never would be, and whining about it wouldn't do any good.

Connor sipped from his coffee then said, "I hear you still have your sword."

"Yes," Elena said, a little relieved that Cassandra had already mentioned this to Connor. "It was a special gift from someone I respect," Elena told him, "and I would not part with it."

Connor merely nodded, but from the upward quirk of one side of his mouth, she could tell he was pleased. Connor had given her the magnificent German broadsword almost fifty years ago, after her sword, a gift from her father, had been snapped in two by Bethel, another Immortal. Bethel had also tortured Elena for weeks and removed her right eye. Connor had helped her recover from that ordeal, and later had taken Bethel's head. Elena had given Connor a katana in return, but the swords were gifts to each other, not merely trades. Her broadsword "spoke" to her, and it had seen much use, before and since. Elena treasured it.

"But you wonder why I didn't use it against that bald Immortal," Elena said.

Connor didn't quite nod, but he did tilt his head and raise both eyebrows, awaiting her response. Elena had once had a cat with a similar expression.

Elena shrugged. "My father taught me to fight with my head. At the time my head was preoccupied with other things. That Immortal would have killed me." She shrugged again. "So I ran." She looked right at Connor, waiting to see what he would say.

"Smart," Connor replied.

She was surprised then realized two things. Connor had to have at some point run from an Immortal, and he was absolutely not going to say anything against her, not now. He'd always been honest and blunt with her, and she hoped he wasn't feeling sorry for her this time. Or mushy. Connor, mushy? Elena dismissed that thought.

Still, she was very glad he hadn't mentioned Duncan being there and fighting the bald Immortal, because Elena wasn't going to lie to Connor and pretend she didn't know, but she also really didn't want to explain to him why she had run from Duncan. Actually run from two Immortals. Elena had seen first-hand Connor's passionate anger when he thought she'd done anything against Duncan. He wasn't protective just of his mortal children—he was protective of his favorite Immortal 'child,' too.

Connor looked at the now empty plate. "Still hungry?"

Later that night in her bedroom, Elena sat down to compose a handwritten message to Duncan. She'd been lucky once with Connor; she didn't want to have to explain to him why she hadn't even written to Duncan yet.

"Duncan, thank you so much for coming to help me in Menorca. You saved my life! and I appreciate your love and friendship very much. I know I can always count on you. I'm here in Austria with Cassandra being still for a while, mourning, and trying to accept Lorenzo's death and the death of Elena Duran-Ponti. I'm sure I'll see you again soon. Gracias, che."

And after some internal debate she signed it, "Elena." Not love, because while she was sure what she felt for Duncan MacLeod was lust, she wasn't sure it was love.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Continued in Chapter 4: Challenges<strong>_


	4. Challenges

**Chapter 4: Challenges**

* * *

><p>After her first talk with Cassandra, Elena moped around on her own for three days. Duncan sent her a lavender plant, and that helped a little. It wasn't blooming yet, but the scent of the leaves was pungently fresh, and the purple and white bowl brought a touch of color to the room. Plus lavender—lavender was a symbol of devotion, Elena knew, making her feel slightly more guilty about Duncan than before.<p>

She'd also gotten a box from Miyu. Inside, carefully wrapped in tissue paper, was an old worn black belt. It was the belt Elena had earned from O'Sensei himself in 1951, the obi she still used. Miyu was a sweetheart, in her own reserved Japanese way, and she knew what Elena needed. Elena sent them each a brief thank-you note, to let them know the packages had arrived. Cassandra sent Elena a note each day, saying she was available if Elena wanted to talk or just sit or go for a walk.

But in spite of apparently being loved by everyone, Elena wanted to be alone.

She had immediately decided it was too cold to go outside, so she did her walking inside, sometimes late at night, or stayed in her bedroom, or in the library reading. She ate at off-hours to avoid others, drank too much espresso, and spent long hours sitting, sometimes kneeling, in the small chapel, praying, quietly crying, having long conversations with God, asking for mercy, for forgiveness. Asking for strength. Often she simply stared, her gaze unfocused, at the beautiful stained glass windows. Every day, an hour in the morning and one at night, she could be found in the music room faithfully practicing the piano.

"You love the piano so much, you should play more," Lorenzo had urged her.

"I have no real talent," she'd replied.

"Maybe you won't be a Rubinstein or a Jardine, but you certainly have the time to practice. You can get really good at it," he'd argued, kissing her on top of her head.

He always kissed her on top of her head when his argument was a strong one. She did have the time, and she had gotten good. In fact, the evening of the second day she found herself with a small admiring audience, including Cassandra, who had come out from her office to listen.

"You play beautifully," the older Immortal told her.

Elena shrugged. "Practice. And a good teacher." Her name was Rosa Maria Solaun, Senora Rosa. Another person Elena would never see again. There were a lot of those people, including almost everyone she loved. The people here, Immortals, teachers, students, sensed her mood or had been told to mostly leave her alone, which is what she wanted. Or what she thought she wanted.

While it was still dark on the fourth morning she awoke in her lonely bedroom and lurched to her feet, her lungs filled with dark seawater from her nightmare. Her knees buckled and she collapsed, fighting to breathe, coughing, sobbing. She missed her husband, her son, her life so much she thought she'd burst open like an old wineskin. At that very moment she wanted to die.

But she asked God for mercy, for forgiveness, for strength, and waited, and slowly her breathing came back to normal, and the terrible moment passed. Elena knew from long experience that grief took time, and that there was no way around it, no way to lessen it, no way to avoid it; she just had to go through it.

But she also knew who she was, and she was not a listless, lost woman who roamed long corridors at night and wept during the day. She was not a ghost. She was alive; she really did want to live; and in order to do that there were certain things she had to do. She wasn't doing them.

So early on that fourth morning, although filled with a sadness that made each step heavy, she knocked on Cassandra's door.

A little later Elena stepped lightly through the dojo doorway wearing a borrowed gi and her worn black belt. The Saturday morning lesson was busy, with about forty students in various groups, though the former banquet hall was spacious enough to hold many more. Each of the two end walls was dominated by an immense fireplace, large enough to roast an entire ox, and the side walls were easily two hundred feet long. Nine tall, narrow windows marched along the western wall, and nine bright banners, matching them in size and shape, marched on the eastern side. The banner directly above Elena's head held all the colors of the rainbow.

In the corner to Elena's left, eight students were practicing their kicks on a line of punching bags. In the corner to her right, the floor was covered with mats, and ten students watched as Connor demonstrated how to fall, and more importantly, how to get back up. He was known as Sensei Mike here, Elena reminded herself.

Elena knelt in seiza just to the right of the doors, keenly observing the other Immortal's grace and ease of movement as he dropped, rolled then rose seemingly effortlessly. After a moment she caught Connor's eye and bowed to him from her kneeling position. He returned the bow. Only then did she enter the room proper. She ignored the chairs that lined the wall on either side of the doors (left there for visitors and parents, Cassandra had told her) and stood at the periphery, watching.

Judo. It was a judo class, led at different levels by Connor, the sensei, and by several high-ranked students who acted as his assistants, the sempai. In the far right corner, a tall sempai with very short hair was supervising pairs of students who were sparring with shinai, the flexible bamboo swords used in practice, but swords nonetheless.

Elena headed for the swords, going around the mat area then past one of the huge fireplaces, which was now being used as a storage space for weapons and protective gear. Elena immediately noticed one student, a brown belt, was getting hit over and over, always on the left side. It was Alea, Sara's daughter. Elena had already spotted Alea in the hallways, for the teenager was the image of her grandmother Alex, except with black hair instead of blonde.

Elena turned to catch Connor's eye then gestured with her chin to the sparring partners, raising her eyebrows, asking his permission. Connor looked at Alea and Monique then looked to his sempai, who was busy with a pair of much younger students. He gave Elena a nod.

Elena stepped not quite between the two combatants when their swords were down. "I'm Senora Luz Marina Gutierrez," she introduced herself. The girls glanced at her black belt, then came to attention and bowed. Elena bowed back then asked, "What are your names?"

"Alea Harulfson," said Connor's granddaughter.

"Monique Lareaux," said the other girl, another brown-belt. Her hair was as dark as Alea's and her skin was only a little lighter than Elena's own.

"Alea, may I ask you a question?"

"Of course, Senora."

"Why do you let Monique keep stabbing you on the left side?"

Alea stiffened a bit, but her reply was respectful. "I'm not defending my left side as I should."

"Why not?"

"I'm too slow," Alea admitted, at the same time Monique opined, "I'm faster than she is."

"That may be," Elena agreed. "But what can you do to keep her from hitting you on the left side?"

Alea grinned ruefully. "Get faster by practicing more."

"Fast is good. Practice is good. But… Show me what you are doing now to protect yourself."

Elena got back out of the way. Moving slowly, Monique thrust with her shinai while Alea brought her sword, tip down, across to her left side to parry the blow. But she was too late. Monique again hit Alea in the left ribcage. In a real fight Monique's sword tip would have pierced right down to Alea's rib bones. But this was just an exercise for them, a sport. Neither girl would ever face an opponent with a real, sharp blade, one who could cut out—

Elena mentally shook herself free of these dark thoughts then said, "Your parry is technically well executed. But it's not stopping Monique. What else can you do?" she asked.

Alea shook her head. "I tried moving back, and moving to my right…"

Elena had seen that little totally-out-of-balance skip to the right. Not good. She shook her head. "She just follows you wherever you go, doesn't she?"

"Yes," Alea admitted. "I have to do something else." Her eyes narrowed in concentration. "I could—"

"Don't tell us," Elena interrupted. "Show us."

The girls faced each other, swords held double-handed in front of their bodies. Monique immediately made her thrust, trying to get at Alea's exposed left side. But this time Alea pivoted on her right foot, pulling her left foot back, planting herself perpendicular to Monique, whose thrust carried her too far forward, past her opponent, missing Alea completely.

"Finally!" Alea said with intense satisfaction.

Elena smiled slightly. "Muy bien, nina," she murmured, although Alea had missed her chance to get under Monique's extended arms and gut her. Figuratively, of course.

"Gracias, Senora," Alea said with a small bow then turned to her friend. "You try it, Monique," Alea said, and the two girls ran through it with Alea on the offense and Monique deftly turning back out of the way of the thrust.

"Luz Marina," Connor said, coming over. "Good to see you're taking an interest." He watched Alea and Monique for a moment then turned to Elena. He began studying her, as he had studied her in the dining hall, but his eyes were no longer soft. They were the eyes of an Immortal, and he was evaluating her.

Elena and Connor had never sparred. They had started to once, half a century ago in Duncan's dojo in Seacouver, just after Elena had, under the influence of a dark Quickening, tried to behead Duncan. Naturally, Connor had been distrustful of her, and had probably wanted to kill her himself. So she had refused to spar, thinking he would try to hurt her, and that it would cause a rift between the MacLeods because of her. But all that had been decades ago, and half a world away, and even if she had also had other arguments with Connor at other times, this past week Connor had been welcoming, even friendly.

But today they were in the dojo, and Connor was taking her measure. "Spar with me," Connor said. It was not an invitation; it was a command. This was a dojo, not a democracy, and Connor was sensei here. His word was law.

However, Elena was not his student. She could leave, although it would make her look stupid, perhaps even cowardly, plus she'd never be able to return to his dojo. Besides, Connor wasn't going to hurt her this time, and she was through running. "Hai," she said with a bow, and he returned it.

"Alea, Monique," he called.

The girls stopped immediately and turned. "Yes, Sensei Mike?" Alea asked.

"May we borrow the shinai, please," he said, and of course they said yes, bowing as they respectfully handed the blades over, hilt first.

Elena returned Monique's bow and took the blade in her left hand. She didn't want to be doing this, and she briefly toyed, again, with the idea of handing the weapon back and walking out. Why had she even come to the dojo? she asked herself. Many times before she had been drawn to places like this because she truly enjoyed sword work, and she was good at it, and she knew it. But today she'd had to force herself. She felt used up and useless, that she was wasting her time. Plus these bamboo swords were incredibly light, like toys really, not real blades at all. This was not real fighting.

However, the Immortal before her was a real Immortal. She could feel his Quickening grinding into her brain, reminding her why she was here, and why she needed to be. Swords were a fact of her immortal life, and she couldn't get away from them. So her choices were, live and prepare for fighting, and practice fighting, and be really good at fighting, or die. Did she want to live or did she want to die?

But this was certainly not a fight en outrance, to the death. What was it then? Practice? Fun? What's your game, Connor? she wondered. He wouldn't be trying to embarrass her in front of the students. That was not his style. He was testing her then, yes, and pushing her.

Well, Elena didn't want to be pushed. She had her own timetable, thank you very much. But Sensei had said, "Spar," so she was sparring. She sighed then swung her sword once, twice, getting the feel of it, the weight then did two quick deep knee bends, rolled her shoulders, twisted at the waist back and forth. She hadn't faced another Immortal in over two years, not counting that bald Immortal she'd simply run away from, hadn't held a sword even for practice in more than a week, wasn't warmed up, and she was facing Connor MacLeod, who had been practicing. She was sure she would need to move quickly and soon.

Meantime Connor clapped his hands once, and all the students stopped what they were doing and turned. "A demonstration," he announced. "With a visiting black-belt: Luz Marina Gutierrez."

Elena didn't mind teaching the students. She did mind being put on the spot whether she was ready or not. OK, Connor, you want to spar, so be it, she thought. Let's do it.

The students quickly sat on the floor in three straight rows, arranging themselves by rank, black and brown belts in front, lower belts in back.

Connor and Elena faced each other and bowed once more. They circled slowly. Usually, Elena liked to attack first, but now she waited. She had spent two weeks out of every month for the last eight years in an aikido ryu in Spain, and aikidokas never attacked. But they sure the hell defended. Not to mention that this sparring hadn't been her idea.

Connor waited, too, watching her, evaluating her. His eyes narrowed then he feinted once, twice, and she evaded him each time, turning with him, merging her motion with his.

Connor gave her a nod. Then he lunged, his weapon aiming straight at the center of her chest.

Which was what Elena had been waiting for. She tossed her own blade to the side, far enough so that it wouldn't be a trip hazard, as she turned one hundred eighty degrees, so that she was standing side by side with Connor. As she pivoted both her hands shot down and grabbed his wrist, a hold known as morote-don. She was intending to use his own forward momentum to flip him on his back and take the weapon from his hand, a move she had practiced often with partners. Always before, her partners had gone down, for resistance meant sure injury to the arm.

But her partners had been mortal. Connor wasn't. He was resisting. He wasn't going down.

By the time Elena realized that, it was too late. She gasped as she felt Connor's wrist bones crack under the strain. Inverted ikkyo grip on the wrist, medial rotation, pressure on the ulnar nerve, possible broken lunate, scaphoid, capitate—

Damn. She had not meant to break anything. This was lack of control on her part. She knew better. Her aikido sensei would disapprove. And Connor wouldn't approve either. In fact, he probably was pissed.

They were still standing next to each other, pressed together shoulder to wrist, her hands clamped around his broken bones, and she could feel his shortened breath on the side of her neck.

Elena heard the students gasp as she took their sensei's shinai out of his hand. She didn't want it clattering to the floor. Then she carefully released her hold, murmuring "Sumimasen" in apology as she stepped away, his sword in her right hand.

Connor breathed in slowly, not looking at her. "A fine example of tachidori, an advanced aikido technique," he told the watching students. His voice was calm and unhurried, and he kept his broken right wrist close to his body, cradled against his waist and hidden by his left hand.

Only Elena, still standing near, could see the slight tenseness near his jaw, a sure sign of pain, or anger, or both, and she watched as tiny blue lights of healing began to flicker behind the fingers of his left hand. Damn and damn.

"Tachi is the Japanese word for sword; dori means defense," he continued. "Aikido is a martial art developed by Morihei Ueshiba in Japan a little more than a century ago."

Elena closed her eyes then opened them. Ueshiba had been her beloved O'Sensei the previous century. Someone else dead and gone.

"Ai means joining," Connor was saying, "ki is spirit or force, and do, of course, means 'way' or 'path'. Thus 'aikido' can be translated as 'the way of combining forces'. " With the linguistic lesson—and the healing—finished, Connor concluded, "Senora Gutierrez, a—"

He stopped, turned to Elena, glanced at her old black belt then asked, "What is your ranking in aikido now?"

"Rokudan."

His eyebrows lifted a tiny bit before he turned back to the students and continued, "Senora Gutierrez, a sixth-degree black belt aikidoka, has just demonstrated a way to combine her force with that of her opponent in order to remove the sword from her opponent's hand." He turned and faced her, both hands now at his sides.

"Well done, Luz Marina," he told her, and they bowed formally to each other.

Elena's bow was lower than his, and she murmured, "Lo siento mucho," an apology in her native Spanish.

"No es nada," he replied quietly in the same language. It's nothing.

A brown-belt in the second row had raised her hand. On her lap was the other shinai, for she had run to catch it as it went through the air. "Yes, Michelle," Connor said.

"Sensei Mike, is it wise to throw away your own sword?" she asked.

"Yes, if you gain a better sword by doing so," he said, and a murmur of amusement went down the rows. He added, "Or if you think your opponent is better with a sword than you are, and you don't want to engage."

Or if you want to break your opponent's arm, take his weapon to replace yours then decapitate him, Elena wanted to add as a third alternative. But this was Connor's lesson; his students, not hers. Also his ego, not hers. She had just beaten him. She'd be content with that even if his students didn't seem to have noticed. He was, she guessed, as gracious as he was going to be, all things considered.

Michelle persevered, "Are you better than Senora Gutierrez?"

"I don't know," Connor replied. "She and I have never sparred before today." He glanced at Elena and inclined his head slightly, saying, "Perhaps another time."

He had been gracious. Her turn. "Now is fine, Sensei."

He was interested, and she could tell he was pleased. She handed Connor his shinai with a bow then retrieved her own from the curious Michelle. He suggested a move, then explained it to the students as he and Elena slowly went through it the first time, then demonstrated at increasingly faster speeds. After a few such maneuvers, Elena realized Connor had provided her with a non-threatening opportunity to hold a sword again. Maybe he was curious about her swordsmanship, or maybe… She decided to stop analyzing and just enjoy the moment. Sparring with a skilled opponent who was not trying to kill her was a rare treat. They broke apart, and she respectfully suggested, "May we try something a little less… formal, Sensei?"

Connor nodded, agreeing with his quicksilver smile. Then he turned to the students and ordered: "To the chairs." The students rose to their feet and moved to the chairs that stood all along the eastern wall, under the banners and on either side of the great, wooden doors. Now the entire open center of the dojo was available for the match.

Connor and Elena bowed to each other again, and this time she immediately attacked, bringing down the mountain, raining blows on him from above, from all sides, with a vengeance, thrusting, lunging, forcing him to parry again and again. The dojo was filled with the sound of the wooden blades hitting each other, blocking and striking quickly, click click click, and Connor and Elena ranged far across the floor. If the students had stayed in their rows, they would have had to move.

Elena pushed him back and she finally got through his guard, scoring a hit on his shoulder—but this time she pulled the blow, and he almost immediately returned the favor, striking her on the thigh then hitting her sword arm, not too hard but still partially numbing it.

She pulled back, sucking air, very glad she was wearing a sweat band so the sweat wouldn't get in her eyes. The rapid movements and the physical stress made her hot. Also, the floor underneath them was slippery with sweat so she stepped laterally to a drier spot, keeping her sword on guard in front of her body. He followed, a big cat stalking his prey, crossing one foot sideways over the other, matching her step for step.

Her left arm still didn't feel strong enough, and she knew he'd attack soon, so Elena dried her right hand on her gi then switched to a double-handed hold while Connor twirled his blade playfully. He was smiling but without malice, attacking without intending real harm. He suddenly lunged, she barely blocked, and they started again, a flurry of motion, the bamboo swords moving so quickly they were hard to follow. They struck each other several more times.

Finally, panting, they separated. Her thighs were tired, her arms trembled slightly. Her wrists ached from the constant blows of wood on wood. Her ribs hurt so badly from Connor's blows—she would have been in agony if he had hit her with all his strength—that she couldn't take a deep breath. Still, she was gratified to see Connor's hair plastered onto his forehead and his chest heaving. She'd made him work too.

They bowed, to the admiring murmurs of students, and handed their blades back to their original owners. Connor clapped his hands once, and all the students returned to their drills.

Elena went to the corner near the punching bags and took a long cold drink from the water fountain then picked up one of the small white towels from the pile, wet it, and wiped her face and head. Connor went back to his students while she spent the rest of the time around the edges of the room, content to watch, glad her Immortal healing kicked in so quickly to counteract sore, unused dueling muscles. She noted with pleasure that Alea was now protecting her left side, and that another pair of sparring partners was trying to imitate some of the moves she and Sensei Mike had just demonstrated.

When the lesson was over, but before the students had been dismissed, Elena approached Connor and made another respectful and quiet suggestion for the next class. Connor grinned and made an announcement; then the students filed from the room.

When the students were gone he said to her, "You've been practicing."

Elena just smiled.

He looked her over, studying her yet again, before saying, "Duncan told me once you do better with a blade in your hand."

Elena nodded. Leave it to Duncan to know exactly what to do to start to bring her out of her grief-stricken stupor. And leave it to Connor to remember. And to do it. She hadn't cared about swordfighting when she woke up this morning, but now she felt satisfied that she hadn't lost her fire or her skill.

"Did he also tell you I can be a ruthless bitch with a blade in my hand?" she asked.

"I knew that already," he said, but his faint smile took the sting from his words. "I don't get the chance to face a challenging opponent very often, especially a left-handed one. I appreciated it."

She nodded in acknowledgement, thinking: Wow, a compliment from Connor MacLeod.

They went to the doorway and turned for the farewell bow, but first he said, "I'm glad you're done with running and are back to fighting."

She wasn't totally 'back.' But she was certainly on her way. "Me, too," she agreed, and then they bowed together, side by side.

* * *

><p><strong>Continued in "Coming Up"<strong>

Translations:

_Sempai (Jap) _– first assistant to sensei

_Shinai (Jap) _– wooden practice sword

_Muy bien, nina (Span)_ - well done, my girl

_Hai (Jap) _– yes

_Ryu (Jap) _– Japanese martial arts school


	5. Coming Up

**Coming Up**

* * *

><p>That afternoon, when Elena had finished her piano playing (Debussy today), Cassandra invited her to tea. Elena left the great circular music room and followed Cassandra into her office. The small room was severely neat, with a desk and a few chairs, and a cabinet against the far wall. A narrow window let in the late winter sunshine, casting a pale yellow rectangle on the floor.<p>

Cassandra and Elena sat on the chairs in front of the desk, facing each other, while Cassandra poured the tea and Elena related the events of that morning.

"You broke his wrist?" Cassandra asked, sounding a little surprised and very amused.

"Yes."

"You ruthless bitch," Cassandra said with fond admiration, and they both laughed aloud, for she and Elena had called each other that—among other things—when they had been sparring partners years ago.

"He didn't take it personally, thank God," Elena added, taking a small sandwich from the tray. "In fact, we arranged for a demonstration of the epee tomorrow. European style fencing, something different for them," she said.

"Good," Cassandra said, taking a sip from her cup. "The two of you should get to know each other better, and the students will enjoy the demonstration." She smiled, obviously still amused. "And so will I. What time?"

"Two in the afternoon." Elena was a little surprised at Cassandra's interest, so Elena offered, "Would you like to spar with me?"

"Not really," Cassandra said with an apologetic smile. "Though I suppose I should."

"You have to practice," Elena said then looked at Cassandra more closely. "Do you spar at all?"

"Occasionally, with the students."

"That's not enough, Cassi," Elena chided her. "Not if you want to stay alive."

Cassandra drew in a breath to speak, but then said simply, "It works for me. And I have other things to do with my time."

"Like what? Teaching music?" Elena said, waving a hand at the music room beyond the office door. "You know, Connor told me that he didn't get a chance to spar with another Immortal very often." He'd actually said "a challenging opponent" and while Cassandra was by no means a great swordswoman, she could at least make him work up a sweat. Elena leaned forward, hoping to help both of them. "I think he misses it."

Cassandra set down her teacup. "Thank you for your concern, Elena," she said, very polite and very remote, just like a Japanese teacher Elena had once had, a quiet and firm closing of the door. But then Cassandra met Elena's eyes and said, "I have flashbacks, as you know."

"_Si_," Elena said. Flashbacks, nightmares, guilt-ridden hours of pure agony, adrenalin-driven moments of terror—what Immortal didn't have these? And someone as old as Cassandra—

"A few years ago," Cassandra continued, "before Connor and I became lovers again, I told him we could either spar or we could have sex. I can't do both, not with the same man." Cassandra picked up her tea cup again and looked at Elena over its rim. "We decided we'd rather have sex."

Elena nodded; that was definitely a more fun way to work up a sweat. "Good choice."

"It works for us," Cassandra said with a demure smile that hinted at much more.

"I'm glad to hear it," Elena said, for she'd been wondering. Connor and Cassandra didn't kiss in greeting; they didn't even hold hands. "You two seem very… restrained."

"We're surrounded by hundreds of very curious teenage girls," Cassandra explained. "Besides, hiding it all day adds a touch of excitement for later, you know?"

"I know," Elena said, remembering a few clandestine relationships. She leaned forward again, this time to ask, "So, is he still a _come-candela_?" for Cassandra had once described Connor as a fire-eater in bed.

"Oh, yes," Cassandra replied, and now her smile was supremely satisfied. "Even better."

Elena found herself smiling, too. "He's probably learned a thing or two in the last… How long had it been for you two?"

"Four hundred and twelve years," Cassandra supplied.

Elena had no doubt that Connor was passionate—she'd borne the brunt of his passionate anger on several occasions. But in bed… she just didn't see him that way. Except that one time, oh, boy, that time, when Methos had led them on an 'adventure' to battle an old Mongol Immortal named Temujin, and Connor had just taken **two **quickenings, and Elena had found herself staring at him, lusting for him, completely filled with longing… Well, yes, maybe she could see him that way.

She picked up her own tea cup, then leaned back and closed her eyes as she drank. She sighed in relaxation and said, "I haven't had high tea since Lord Haversham tried to seduce me in… 18—" Her musings were interrupted by the chime of Cassandra's computer. "A plea for help from a student?" Elena asked.

"Student messages are announced with an A-major triad," Cassandra said. "That chord is for a custom news feed." She set down her cup and laid her hand gently on Elena's arm. "Elena, Marcellino is salvaging your family plane."

Elena sighed, this time in resignation. She had hoped someone would do it so that Lorenzo and his mother wouldn't become fish food, and of course Marcellino had. What a good son! The Pontis would have a proper Catholic funeral and be buried in the family plot in Rome where they belonged. In fact, there would probably be an empty casket for her. Elena wondered what they would say at her funeral, and at Lorenzo's funeral.

Would Marcellino give the eulogy? He would want to, she knew, thinking of his love, actually his almost worship, of his father. And his beloved grandmother! Burying three loved ones in one day—it was going to be so hard for him. She should be there to support him, except of course… Immortality sometimes was a curse.

"Do you want to watch?" Cassandra asked. Elena nodded fiercely, and Cassandra said, "Would you mind if Connor were here, too? He's been following this story."

"That's fine," Elena said, touched by their concern. She hadn't been following it. In fact, she'd been avoiding it. But not anymore. No more running.

Cassandra pulled the curtains over the window then went behind her desk to her computer to type and click. The video appeared on the screen mounted on the wall. "Connor will be here soon," Cassandra said, and Elena nodded, already engrossed in the news.

The caption read, "Ponti Aircraft Salvaged Earlier Today!" The salvage operation had involved a huge ship with a crane and dozens of workers. Smaller ships waited at a distance, and several helicopters circled overhead, all with camera crews. Buzzards. Vultures. Better known as paparazzi.

When the news camera zoomed to the ship's deck, Elena spotted Marcellino, wrapped in a warm coat and wearing his favorite black fedora pulled low, standing by himself. He looked so lonely and so brave, as he'd often been as a child. But sometimes he confided in her, and she knew that hugs always made him feel better. She wished so much she could hug him now.

Elena watched the cable on the crane tighten and the winch began to turn. By the time Connor arrived at Cassandra's office, the small plane, streaming water, had been deposited on the deck of the ship. Connor shook his head at the bent wings and crumpled fuselage. He ignored the tea, instead silently retrieving a bottle of Scotch and some glasses from the cabinet against the wall, and sat down next to Elena on the chair in front of the desk.

The view shifted to the harbor of Mahon, with pleasure boats along the south shore, and fuel tanks and rows of warehouses to the north. The caption now read "LIVE! BREAKING NEWS! Ponti Plane Crash!" in English and Italian. The ever-frenetic ad-bar had green flamingos wearing Solari sunglasses dancing across the bottom of the screen.

On the left side of the screen, a beautiful woman with plastic-looking blonde hair narrated with the annoyingly smooth yet somehow breathless tones of a newscaster, speaking in Italian: "The Ponti family plane was taken to the island of Minorca and placed inside a warehouse, where workers searched the plane. ISN has just learned that only two bodies were found: that of Gina Ponti, the eighty-year-old matriarch of the family, and her son, Lorenzo, age sixty-one. The body of Lorenzo's estranged wife was not found." The woman's voice dropped suggestively. "One can only wonder why."

"!_Que villana_!" Elena muttered. "Why do they… Don't they give a damn about anyone? _!Al carajo todos!" _Connor handed Elena a drink. She gulped the Scotch quickly, and he took the glass back and poured her another.

"We go now to Dacio Girodano on the ground," the newscaster continued, "live with the latest from ISN. Dacio, the distress call from the Ponti plane a week ago on Saturday said that their engines had failed. Any information as to why?"

Dacio appeared on the screen, a young man with dark wavy hair and unrealistically white teeth. A plain gray wall rose high behind Dacio, broken only by a few small windows near the roof. Uniformed guards stood near the door. Dacio nodded earnestly. "Serafina, I'm standing in front of the warehouse where the salvaged plane was taken less than an hour ago. That model of plane has a good safety record, so experts are baffled as to why the engines would fail. Possibly ice, or lack of fuel, or even—" he paused dramatically "—foul play."

"I see," Serafina said, in a way that suggested she knew something more. "Business rivals? Or something more personal?"

"Of course, that's just a speculation, and no one can say," Dacio said, then went on saying it anyway: "The Ponti family does have a long history, going back to the poisoning, scheming Borgias, and is known to be ruthless in their business deals. Also, the heir to the family fortune, Roberto Marcello Ponti, recently became engaged; he and his fiancée will now be completely in charge of the business. And of course, there have long been rumors that Lorenzo's father and grandfather knew people in the Mafia."

Elena shook her head in disgust. "They say that about every rich Italian." She sipped at her drink, letting the Scotch linger on her tongue before drinking again.

Serafina said, "Dacio, I understand that Marcello Ponti was present for both the salvage and the search of the plane."

"That's correct, Serafina. He insisted on being there."

"He should be there! He paid for all of it!" Elena exclaimed.

"Were officials present?" Serafina asked, looking serious and concerned. Below her, the dancing flamingos had been replaced with flowers that turned continually themselves inside out and formed into letters, spelling out Nostalgia, the latest perfume from the House of Darrieux.

"I don't have information on that, Serafina." Dacio waved at the uniformed guard near the door. "Probably just the local Spanish police. We should remember that Lorenzo's wife was Spanish, and she moved to Spain almost twenty years ago. The couple had been living apart since then, she very quietly, while Lorenzo Ponti kept up an extremely active social life."

"_!Mal rayo les parta!"_ Elena hurled the curse at the video like she would throw a brick. "I'm not even Spanish, _!idiotas!_ And it's been only seventeen years." She glared at the screen. In just a few sentences, the newscasters had managed to suggest that Marcellino—or possibly his fiancée's family—may have been behind the crash, that Marcellino was bribing the local cops to hide evidence, or even that Lorenzo and his mother had tossed Elena from the plane then crashed into the sea themselves, and, also, that the whole family was in a feud with fellow Mafioso, and that Lorenzo had been cavorting with mistresses or hosting orgies.

"I can use this as an example in my class on neuro-marketing and propaganda next week," Cassandra said.

"Yellow fucking journalism!" Elena agreed. "At least they haven't speculated that I murdered them then got in a submarine," she said bitterly. She finished her drink then snorted. "Well, I did fool them in the 'living quietly' part."

Connor shook his head, his eyebrows raised, then leaned over and filled her glass again.

"Serafina, I've just heard that the new head of the Ponti empire is leaving the warehouse, where the bodies of his father and grandmother were recovered from the plane," Dacio said in excitement. "We're going to him now—live with the latest from ISN."

The camera left Dacio and pulled back to show a huge gray warehouse. Then it zeroed in on Marcellino, who was walking to his car with a bodyguard on either side. Elena took a deep breath, let it out slowly at the sight of her son. "_M'hijo_," she murmured, wanting to touch him, to reach out, to hug him.

Marcellino favored his biological mother's side of the family. He was shorter than Lorenzo, and darker. He was also not as charismatic, or intelligent, but he was, Elena opined, a much kinder man, with a rock-solid reputation for integrity.

The reporters were throwing all kinds of questions at Marcellino, crowding his bodyguards, who weren't shy about shoving back. Marcellino walked slowly, shaking his slightly lowered head, mostly ignoring them.

Elena's heart went out to him. "I should be with him," she murmured.

One the brasher reporters yelled, "Signore Ponti!" as the driver opened the car door and it seemed Marcellino was about to escape. "Your mother's body was not found in the wreckage," continued the reporter. "Do you think she abandoned the others to try to save herself, or that she committed suicide in the sea when she saw your father dead?" The reporter eagerly held out a microphone toward Marcellino.

Marcellino stopped, one hand on the car door, then turned to that reporter and stared at him. Marcellino acted surprised, but his light brown eyes, the one feature he did share with Lorenzo, were glittering. Elena could tell he had been crying, although his face was set now, calm. Camera flashes illuminated it over and over, and the cameras continued clicking, but all questions died down then finally stopped. Everyone was waiting to see what he would say.

Marcellino stepped away from the car and came toward the reporter, getting so close the man had to take a step back. "Watch out," Elena said, her lips pressed together. If she'd been there she would have run that damn reporter through with her sword. And Serafina and Dacio, too. Elena's son, in his own way, was equally tough.

Marcellino positioned himself so that the microphone could get every word. "Are those my two choices?" Marcellino asked the reporter then continued, "Tell me, do you… **journalists**…," the word was loaded with sarcasm, "…stay up nights trying to think of the most vicious things to ask, or are you just naturally born evil parasitic bastards?"

No one answered, and even the cameras were silent. As Marcellino turned on his heel and went back to his car, the cameras started clicking again. Marcellino and his bodyguards got in the car, and it drove away.

The newsfeed zoomed back to Dacio, his face intent and eager above an ad-bar of exploding watermelons, but Cassandra turned it off and the screen went black.

Connor snorted then said, "I like your son."

It was the same thing Connor had said about Lorenzo, and Elena nodded her appreciation. "Me too," she whispered. Connor leaned over and topped off Elena's Scotch, and she drank it in one swallow then coughed, put the glass down, and stated, "I have to see him."

Cassandra moved the tea tray to the side of her desk then leaned forward to ask: "Why?"

"Because he needs me," Elena said. "I'm his mother. He's lost his beloved father and his doting grandmother, but he hasn't lost me, not yet."

"Yes, he has," Cassandra contradicted. "He lost his mother the same day he lost his father and his grandmother. You, Elena, are alive, but Elena Duran-Ponti is dead."

Elena shook her head. "I'm his mother, and I intend to be there for him," she declared. "Lorenzo hated Immortality and he wanted Marcellino to have no part of it. And it was hard, believe me, keeping that secret, but we did it. But on his deathbed, on that plane, Lorenzo gave me a message to give to our son. It means he was finally giving his permish—" She tripped over the English word and switched to Spanish. "—_permiso_."

Elena saw the quick glance that Cassandra and Connor exchanged, and the way Cassandra sat back in her chair. Elena stood to tell them: "I've tried raising children three times, and the first two didn't make it past infancy. One of them didn't even make it out of the womb; the Hunters machine-gunned Maria when she had eight months." Elena dashed away her tears. "Marcellino has lived to be a grown man whom I'm proud to call my son. I'm not going to give him up. He's going to live for another forty years, and I'm not going to spend them looking at him on television being interviewed by bastards like that Dacio bastard, or on the cover of some gossip magazine!"

Cassandra had just been sitting, not arguing, not agreeing, but now she got up from her chair and came over to Elena. "Oh, _nina,_" she said softly, taking Elena's hands in her own, "I know you miss Marcellino terribly."

"I do," Elena agreed. "I want to see him and I'm going to see him. And Connor…" He looked up at her, and she reached past him for the Scotch, holding on to the edge of the desk for balance with her right hand while she grabbed the bottle with her left, "I'm taking this bottle."

Connor simply nodded, but at a narrowed-eyed glance from Cassandra, he stood and opened the door. "Come on, Elena. Cassandra has work to do."

Elena walked with precise strides to the door, the bottle firmly in hand.

Cassandra went back to her desk chair, saying, "Connor, would you please go with Elena back to her room?"

"I don't need help to get to my room," Elena told Connor, and he nodded but kept walking next to her as they made their way past pianos and drums and treacherously unstable music stands. They went down the stairs and through a door and down a hall but when Elena started to go up another staircase, Connor casually blocked her way and steered her down the hall. "_Condenao laberinto_," she muttered. After that, she followed his lead as they went down the hall, around a corner, through a double set of doors, and up another set of stairs. Finally, they came to a familiar hall and her room.

Connor patiently held the bottle while Elena took out her key and opened her door, then handed it back to her. Elena's fingers curled snugly around the bottle's neck. "Is Cassandra angry with me?" she asked him.

He shook his head. "She's mildly irritated, at most. But not with you."

"With you?" Elena asked, and he shrugged. "Well, as I recall, you've always tried to get me drunk, Connor," she said. This time he smiled. You bastard, she thought. "In any case, I will be at the dojo, tomorrow at two, as we agreed," Elena told him.

"I'm sure you will," Connor said.

Elena locked the door behind her and looked around. There were no glasses in her room, so she simply took a deep swig from the Scotch bottle. It burned; she coughed and spat some of it out. She knew if she kept drinking like this it would just make her sick. It wouldn't make her feel better. It wouldn't make anything better for Lorenzo, who was dead, or for Marcellino, who was still alive.

So she carefully placed the bottle down on the desk, right next to the lavender plant from Duncan, opened the curtained alcove where her bed was and flung herself, fully dressed, on it, for a long afternoon of dreamless sleep. Late that night she went back to the dimly-lit chapel to pray again for mercy, for forgiveness, for strength. And for guidance.

* * *

><p>On Sunday Elena decided, for the first time, to eat lunch while the students were there. The dining hall was noisy and crowded, yet cheerful. As she picked out her food from the buffet, several of the students greeted her as "Senora Gutierrez," and Elena noticed some of them pointing her out to their friends, and overheard the words "epee" and "Sensei Mike."<p>

Elena spotted "Sensei Mike" and Cassandra sitting at the far end of the hall, so she wove her way among the tables, stepping over backpacks and outflung feet. "_Buenos dias_," she said as she slipped into the chair opposite Cassandra.

"_Buenos dias_," Cassandra replied, and Connor nodded in greeting, even as he inspected her. He seemed a bit surprised to see Elena at the table.

Good, Elena thought, picking up her fork and knife. Nothing like being unpredictable to other Immortals.

"And how are you today?" Cassandra asked, with a little more interest than usual.

"Well," Elena said cheerfully. "Invigorated. I went down to Sankt Jakobus for a frozen Mass, and that Polish priest, the one who speaks French, was there. We talked a little about my being a recent widow."

"Did he help?" Cassandra said.

Elena nodded as she ate her salad. "I like talking to priests and nuns. They give me comfort and an eternal perspective, but they won't let me get too deep into self-pity. They say it's against God's will."

"Yes, Sister Anelise—she's in charge of the medical center in town—and I have had many good conversations," Cassandra said. "She likes Father Tomasz, too; she says he listens well." Cassandra smiled at Elena. "It's good to see you here, Elena. I'm glad you joined us for lunch."

"Although you don't seem too hungry," Connor opined.

Elena glanced down at her lunch, which consisted of a small piece of grilled chicken, a salad, a tall glass of water and a cup of coffee. As she did so, Connor pushed a small plate with an apple strudel toward her.

"You're kidding, right?" she laughed. "In two hours you're going to run me up and down that dojo floor like we were playing basketball. I am not eating anything heavy, _de eso nada._" No way, she thought, using her knife to parry then thrust at him, playfully.

Connor smiled. "Eating anything after drinking a bottle of whisky can be a challenge."

Elena knew that, thank you very much. As did he, she was sure. From past drinking bouts, she remembered vomiting before she'd even been able to get dressed in the morning. But last night she hadn't drunk any more in her room after that first long swallow. Not that she would tell Connor that. Let him think she would be sluggish in the dojo this afternoon. Surprise, Connor!

"I'm fine now," she said. Connor laughed and took the strudel back.

And two hours later in the dojo, Elena burned away her lunch plus whatever alcohol was left in her system after she and Connor donned protective gear, saluted with their buttoned epees, and Connor announced, "_En garde_."

* * *

><p><em><strong>To be continued...<strong>_

Translations (Spanish):

_Que villana_ – what a villain

_Al carajo todos, mal rayo les parta _– to hell with all of them

_M'hijo _– my son

_Condenao laberinto _– damn labyrinth


	6. Moving On

**Moving On**

On each of the next three days, Elena and Connor gave a demonstration, working with saber, the bo and the sai, and finally unarmed. The students loved aikido, a martial arts she had originally taken up because it was non-deadly and she could use against mortals, and she taught Connor a few very efficient moves. He was a quick study, which was no surprise.

She found herself eating with the students at meals, answering their questions and listening to their chatter. And sometimes even laughing. Darkness fell early at this time of year, and Elena retired for the evening before nine, but hardly ever to sleep. She walked up and down interminable staircases, getting her wind back to the level she needed. She read extensively from the school library, books in Spanish, French, English. She prayed. And she missed Lorenzo Ponti.

While in her room, Elena had become used to sensing Cassandra nearby, but late on Wednesday night she sensed another Immortal approaching. Elena automatically reached for her sword and opened her door. She saw Connor, of course it was him, at the end of the hall. He turned to meet her gaze just as Cassandra opened her door. He went in to be with her.

Elena went back into her empty bedroom alone.

She considered going to bed then decided instead to head for the cafeteria. But when she got there she realized she wasn't hungry. She got a cool drink of water then wandered the castle halls, but not lost or floundering or running anymore. Lorenzo's funeral was tomorrow. She couldn't go it, of course, but she would visit his grave the next day and then start a new life. It was time.

Whatever kind of life she built, she knew it would have to include swords, and that meant she needed to practice. Demonstrations with Connor weren't enough; there was no passion and especially no danger. It was after midnight when she went back to her room for her gi and her sword then headed for the dojo. The doors were open and unlocked, and she turned on only enough lights for her purpose, closed both doors to the dojo behind her then removed her shoes.

Two years ago, the Immortal samurai Hosokawa had travelled to Spain to see how his ward, Ueshiba Miyu, was doing running her branch of the Ueshiba family aikido _ryu_. Elena, who studied at that _ryu_, had expected no trouble with the samurai. They had been lovers in the past, but Hosokawa knew Elena was married, and the _bushido_ warrior code would not permit him to make any romantic advances towards her. Nor would her own marriage vows permit it.

What Hosokawa did do, to show his affection, was offer to teach her a new sword kata. Actually, an old sword kata, just new to her. It was beautiful, graceful and powerful, designed for a lighter katana, but Hosokawa had helped Elena adapt it to her German broadsword. They had practiced it together for the months he was in Andalucia. After he had left, Elena had incorporated that kata into her practice repertoire.

She was going to do it now.

She came to the center of the dojo, tightened the knot on her black belt and put her broadsword on the floor. Elena began by clearing everything from her thoughts to concentrate on the now. For a while she sat cross-legged, slowing her breathing and even her heart rate, pushing away all extraneous thoughts and sensations until finally she achieved the now-ness she was looking for. Then, moving slowly, she rose, picked up her naked blade and struck it lightly on the polished wood floor. _"!Desperta ferro!"_ she breathed, a Spanish medieval battle cry she had picked up in Spain, two, no almost three years ago.

* * *

><p><strong>10 August 2041, Costa Brava, Catalonia, Spain<strong>

"!_Desperta ferro_!" her opponent, Agusti Amador, cried, drawing his blade and tapping the tip on the pavement.

Elena was getting ready to fight, but when she heard her opponent talking to his sword she paused long enough to repeat, "'Steel, awake!'?" then replied with her own customary phrase, in Catalan this time: "_Deus aia_," asking God for His help in the duel.

Amador countered with, "There are no greater pleasures than war and plunder!" in Catalan.

She recognized a line from the war chant of the _Almugavers, _a feared band of Catalan mercenaries from seven centuries ago. She continued the chant with "!_Que avisin als fossers!"_

Amador chuckled to hear her "call for the gravediggers", and then they chanted together, "_!Avant, almugavers!"_

By this point they had both lowered, but not sheathed, their swords. "You don't even sound Spanish," he accused.

"No, I'm an Argentine, _che_, but my father was an Iberian."

"And I'm a Catal— Wait," Amador said, his eyes narrowing. "Are we here to fight, or are we here to swap history lessons? Are you Diomedes to my Glaucus?"

The Trojan War. The man was well read. Diomedes and Glaucus were mortal enemies who met on the battlefield and wound up friends. "Either one," she answered. "Especially if you are an _Almugaver_," Elena continued, fascinated.

"_A sus ordenes,"_ he said proudly.

Elena doubted that Amador would be 'at her service,' but it was still worth a try to **not** fight him. "My father said you were the most bloodthirsty violent mercenaries Europe ever produced. He really admired you."

"Did he?"

"In fact, I'd like to adopt the battle cry_, '!Desperta ferro!'_ If you don't mind."

Amador shrugged. "If you kill me, I won't mind, and if I kill you, then it's a moot point, _?no es asi?"_

Elena took a step back then decided to chance it and sheathed her sword. "Diomedes and Glaucus didn't fight in the end. We are also free men and women, aren't we? Let me buy you a glass of _rioja_. I'd love to swap history lessons. If you like, we can try to kill each other later."

He agreed by putting his own sword inside his coat, and as they walked to the nearest cantina, she asked, "Have you ever heard of the warriors of the Mapuche Indian tribe?"

* * *

><p><strong>Austria<strong>

Elena smiled at the memory of Amador, who had become a Glaucus friend. So much for being in the now, she said to herself. So many memories; it was impossible to forget them all. She sighed. There were memories that were too good to forget, like those of Lorenzo. All in all she'd been very happy with him, and she'd miss him. But her life, which included death more often than not, had to go on. She sheathed the sword at her waist and knelt in _seiza._

Only when she was ready did she explode to her feet, drawing her sword in a lightning _iai_ move that included a horizontal swing intended to decapitate any attacker. Japanese katana duels often ended as soon as they began: by the fighter who got in that first deadly cut. But just in case the first strike failed, the kata continued.

Overhead strike, thrust at the frontal attacker then at the rear attacker then thrust again and withdraw the sword before it can be parried, moving immediately to a spiral throat cut. She parried right and left, thrust, lunged, leaped. _Yoho giri_, side cut. _Kesa giri_, vertical cut. In the booming silence of the vast room, the only sounds were the thudding of bare feet on the wooden floor, the swish of her blade through the air, the rustle of her gi, the beating of her heart, the catch of her breath.

Elena accentuated each thrust and lunge with an explosive "Ja!", otherwise silent. She twirled and sliced into her imaginary opponent again and again. Many of the fluid movements were done bent-kneed; she often went down to one knee then rose effortlessly to strike once more. She was glad she'd warmed up by all that walking and stair climbing through the castle, although she doubted an enemy would give her that opportunity…

As soon as she thought of a person her concentration on the purity of the kata broke, and she lost her flow. To let it go or start again? She chose to pick up where she'd stopped, speeding up then finishing with a long, ballet-like leap, her sword held high, and, with a harsh guttural cry, a long vertical double-handed strike that ended, with perfect precision, with the tip of the blade a centimeter off the wooden floor.

She held that position for a whole minute without even trembling then stood at attention and quickly sheathed her sword. She was certainly breathing hard but not panting or exhausted, she'd remembered all her moves, and that last vertical cut had been designed to cleave an enemy from head to crotch. It would have worked, too.

Relatively satisfied, she left the dojo, turning out the lights. Just outside the door she met Alea and her friend, Michelle… no, the girl's name was Monique. "Aren't you breaking some rule?" Elena asked them.

"We're senior students, so we're allowed," Monique answered.

"What exactly are you allowed to do at this hour?" Elena asked.

"Nothing loud and no sparring," Alea said.

"We're coming to practice our sword katas," Monique explained.

Me, too, Elena thought. She bowed and pointed to the open dojo doors. "It's all yours, ladies."

* * *

><p>The next morning at breakfast, Connor sat down across from her without as much as a hello. He didn't have any food with him, either. "Good morning to you too," Elena greeted him pointedly.<p>

He ignored it. "Alea and Monique told me they saw you at the dojo last night." He didn't sound particularly happy about that.

"Kata," she explained with a shrug. "I didn't know they'd be roaming the halls at that hour."

"They're teenagers," he said, as if that explained it all.

"I closed the doors," Elena said. "Unless they were spying through the keyhole—"

"It's too small," Connor interrupted. "And they wouldn't anyway. They've been taught to respect closed doors on the dojo."

Which meant Connor had been the one to teach them, Elena knew. She finished her sentence: "Then they didn't learn anything about the Game from me." He lifted an eyebrow at her, and Elena reconsidered. "Are there cameras in there? Surveillance?" Now he lifted both eyebrows at her, which meant he thought it was a stupid question, which meant the answer was yes. Damn, she should have thought about that.

"Like I said, they're teenagers," Connor said. "They talk. They post online. They also watch vids. And then they post online about the vids they watch."

"Security vids?" she questioned. "And just how do they get those?"

"We teach them to be resourceful here," he said wryly. "I deleted the vid from the security feed this morning."

She wanted to be pissed off, but he was in charge of security after all. He wasn't spying on her; looking at that vid was part of his job. Plus he needed to be sure that she hadn't even inadvertently given anything away about the Game. Last time she'd been here she'd only used practice swords.

He wasn't smiling as he reminded her, "This is my home, Duran."

"I'm aware of that, Connor," she answered, a bit testily, because the last time she'd brought the possibility of the Game to his home and his family (and students were like family), he'd promised to take her head if she ever did it again, and she hadn't forgotten. He'd better not be threatening her now, she thought. She was not in the mood.

But then he offered, "Later today, I'll show you how to disable the dojo surveillance."

Elena nodded. "Thanks."

"Then you and I could spar without an audience." His slow grin was a challenge.

"My pleasure," Elena replied, with a challenging grin of her own. "Tonight?"

"Tonight," he agreed. "Two a.m.?"

"It's a date," she said. She was really looking forward to this! "It'll be a good finale for us personally."

"You're leaving," he said, obviously picking up on the word finale.

"Tomorrow. I have some business with a lawyer in Basel, and then I'm going to visit Lorenzo's grave in Rome." She smiled at Connor and said, "I want to thank you. For your kindness and faith in me. For honoring me in your dojo. And yes, for beating me black and blue with a _shinai._"

He smiled back, briefly. "You're welcome. And… my pleasure."

Elena didn't doubt that. She'd enjoyed smacking him, too. "I needed that challenge to awake. _Desperta, _Elena!"

"A sword in the hand does focus the mind," Connor said with a nod. "For the students, too. Watching you has inspired them. Thanks."

"You're welcome," she said, a little surprised by his graciousness and very pleased to be a role model for so many girls… No, she corrected herself, for so many young women.

He stood, but turned at the door to say, "Beautiful kata."

"Glad you enjoyed it," Elena answered with a smile.

After breakfast, Elena went to the gym to talk to Cassandra, who was at her usual morning workout, peddling one of the exercise bikes. With all the girls in class, the gym was mostly deserted at this time of day, except for a pair of teachers in the far corner using the rowing machines. Cassandra waved, then got off the bike and met Elena in the middle of the room.

"Lorenzo's funeral is today," Elena told her. "Tomorrow I'll go visit his grave. And then I'm moving on."

"It's time," Cassandra agreed, looking into her eyes. "You're ready."

"Thank you for making me welcome here," Elena said. "And for listening."

"Of course," Cassandra said warmly, giving her a hug. "That's what friends do for each other. I may come knocking on your door someday. Again."

Elena smiled wryly at the memory of that visit. "Good thing I let you in. Oh, Duncan gave me a lavender plant. I'm going to be traveling, maybe for quite a while. Would-"

"I'll take care of it for you until you're settled," Cassandra offered immediately.

"Thank you. You are a true friend." And friends supported you, right? Elena took a deep breath and announced, "I'm also going to see Marcellino."

Cassandra nodded slowly then sat down on one of the benches. "It's your decision, of course, Elena. I hope that goes well."

"Thank you," Elena replied, glad to know that both Connor and Cassandra did honestly wish her well. Immortals weren't often so friendly.

"Are you going to go see Duncan, too?" Cassandra asked. Elena hesitated, and Cassandra asked, "Haven't you talked to him yet?"

"No. I sent him a letter last week, but I can't—" Elena paced in the small space between the rack of free weights and the bench press_. _"When I saw him fighting on Menorca—fighting for me—I reacted to him like a bitch in heat, Cassi! My husband of forty years was at the bottom of the sea—not even in the ground yet—and I was lusting for Duncan MacLeod." She wrung her hands together, shaking her head. "I am so ashamed."

"You feel as if you're betraying Lorenzo," Cassandra said, not accusing or horrified, just matter-of-factly putting into blunt words what Elena had been feeling these last ten days.

"Yes! Like I'm spitting on his memory. Like these last almost forty years didn't matter at all. Like I didn't really—" She stopped short, unable to say it.

But Cassandra said it. "Like you didn't really love him?" she asked gently, and Elena bit her lip and nodded, tears in her eyes. "But you did love Lorenzo," Cassandra said.

"Yes," Elena whispered then said it again, stronger this time, for she knew it was true. "Yes, I did."

Cassandra stood and put an arm around Elena's shoulder, saying. "I know you did. Every time I saw the two of you together, I could tell. You were obviously in love. As was he."

Elena nodded, remembering.

They sat down again, and Cassandra said, "We can love or be attracted to more than one person at a time, Elena. We often are. You told me you had relationships with both Duncan and Hosokawa at the same time."

Elena shrugged that away. "They were both Immortals. And they were both my lovers. A husband is different. Cassandra, when I get married I take a sacred vow. There are no other men, not even beautiful Scots warriors!"

"Fidelity is very important to you," Cassandra said. "Honor, loyalty, trust…"

"Yes!" Her father had raised her with those values. The nuns and priests had schooled her as well. "A person without honor is of no value."

Cassandra nodded slowly then said, "I believe our honor depends on our actions, not on our reactions. In a dangerous situation, our bodies naturally react with fear. Yet if our minds give us courage, we go forward. Thus, we can choose to act honorably._"_

"Yes, ok, you make a good point. But the reason I left without speaking to Duncan is that I was not convinced I wouldn't try to act on my terrible, lustful thoughts. Even if he wouldn't. Of course he wouldn't. And he'd be… disgusted with me. Horrified._"_

"Oh, I doubt that," Cassandra said dryly. "After emotional distress or being close to death, our bodies react with the urge to seek life—often through sex. For some people, including Duncan, it's a way to heal. For others, it's unwanted and distressing."

"Unwanted and distressing both," Elena said. "I don't feel right about this. About my feelings. About my reaction."

"Good," Cassandra said briskly. "That means you live by your principles, not your passions. When your body reacted with fear and with lust, you chose to act with courage and with honor."

"You have a better opinion of me, my friend, than I do of myself."

"I think we can all be our own harshest critics," Cassandra opined.

"Please—" Elena leaned toward Cassandra a little, saying earnestly, "Please don't tell Duncan about this. Or Connor, either. I'm counting on you to be my confidante."

"Of course I won't tell." Cassandra reached across and squeezed Elena's hands. "This is between us. Although at some point, **you** will have to tell Duncan."

"I know, I know," Elena said, squeezing back. "But not yet."

"It's your decision, of course," Cassandra said again then added with an impish grin, "You know, since you sent Duncan a thank-you letter for coming to rescue you from the water and also killing that hunter, I don't think he will mind being told later that's he's just 'too sexy for his shirt' and that you found him so irresistible that you couldn't control yourself and had to leave."

Elena found herself smiling a little in spite of herself. "Well, when you put it that way… He is too sexy. And especially after a Quickening. You know what that's like!"

"Yes," Cassandra said with a tight smile then looked away.

Elena looked at her for a moment, waiting, but when Cassandra didn't elaborate, Elena said, "You know, Cassi, I've been thinking it's possible Marcellino suspected something about me. One time he was supposed to be gone with his friends but came back early. Lorenzo and I were arguing, loudly—we always argued loudly, he was Italian, I'm Latin American, what can I tell you—and Lorenzo told me I was acting like a child, in spite of being an Immortal. I know Marcellino heard because later his father had to tell him we were talking about our immortal souls. But… I'm just not sure."

"Even if Marcellino does 'suspect something' about you, he won't be imagining the Game."

"No," Elena admitted. "But I don't have to tell him about that part."

"You've hidden this from him his entire life," Cassandra said. "You've lied to him since he was born. If you do tell him, you should tell him everything. If you keep lying and he finds out that truth, he'll never trust you again."

"The voice of experience," Elena observed tartly.

"Yes," Cassandra agreed, and once again her eyes were very old. "I lied to the people I loved, and I ruined almost everything. I hope you can learn from my mistakes." She took a deep breath before saying, "I told some of my children what I was. I wish I hadn't."

"Connor told his children."

"Connor's children found out on their own," Cassandra corrected. "Duncan didn't tell his. And Lorenzo didn't want you to tell your son about Immortality."

"No, but he gave me permission."

"Did he?" Cassandra asked. "Explicitly? Or did he know that you would survive the crash no matter what, and so expect you to remain Elena Duran-Ponti?"

Elena was just not sure, so she was silent.

"Keeping the secret ruined Sara's marriage," Cassandra said next. "After Connor reinvented himself as Michael Audren, Sara's husband thought this 'new man' in her life was her lover. So Sara's husband found a lover of his own."

"_!Cono!_" Elena exclaimed. No wonder Sara had sounded a little bitter the other day.

"As soon as you tell Marcellino the truth," Cassandra said, "he will have to start lying to everyone he knows—including his wife-to-be. He may resent you for putting that burden on him. He may resent you for living while his father died. At some point, he will resent you for your immortality; they all do."

Cassandra added softly, "He may start to hate you."

"You think so?" Elena asked.

"After the first few times," Cassandra said slowly, "I decided to keep the certain memory of love, rather than take the chance of that hate." Cassandra shook her head and sighed. Then she looked at Elena and asked, "Elena, are you going for his sake, or yours?"

"I think both of our sakes. I need to hug my son, and he needs to be hugged by his mother. Maybe it'll turn out different for us than for you."

"Perhaps it will," Cassandra said.

"And if not," Elena went on, "damn the consequences!"

Elena spent the rest of the morning playing the piano and making travel arrangements. On her way to lunch, she stopped by the dojo to say farewell to some of the girls she'd gotten to know.

"You're leaving?" Alea asked, sounding disappointed.

"Yes, my vacation is over. It's been nice meeting you, Alea. You too, Monique." The girls bowed to her in unison, and Elena returned the bow. Those two must be inseparable, Elena thought with an inner smile as she left.

In the afternoon, she went to the chapel and prayed for Lorenzo's soul, and for Gina's. Then she prayed for mercy for her son Marcellino. "I could use a little help myself," she mentioned to God.

Then she took a nap, to be well-rested for her bout with Connor that night.

* * *

><p><strong>The Dojo<strong>

Elena's thigh, deeply slashed by Connor's razor-sharp katana, gave way, and she twisted to fall as gracefully as she could onto her back. She knew she could not put any weight on her left leg and needed two minutes to recoup.

Connor smiled evilly. In a real fight he'd have practically won. Mostly. Still he didn't close with her, knowing she could swing her blade at ankle level and do a lot of damage. "Need a break, Elena?" he asked, panting.

Elena, who couldn't yet get up, kept her sword pointed at his face. "Come closer," she taunted.

Connor came. She parried his downward thrust, swords sliding against each other, then reached up suddenly and grabbed the katana's _tsuka_. The dragon carved into the hilt was rough against her palm.

If he pulled back against her weight he'd help pull her to her feet, nor did he dare release his sword. Connor obviously knew that, so he punched her in the side of the head,, not too hard but hard enough, and she crashed back to the floor, not the least bit gracefully this time. In an instant his blade was at her neck.

"Yield," she admitted, the back of her head throbbing, and he pulled back right away. Ten minutes before Elena had struck Connor's blade aside and put her sword tip, just the tip, into his chest, which meant they were even, one kill each. They'd been sparring for almost an hour and both had numerous cuts, bruises and abrasions. Elena had at least two broken ribs and every breath cut into her lungs. She had cut at his shoulders and arms, making him almost—almost—drop his sword, and he had sliced open her thigh twice now. She had broken his wrist again like she had at the original demonstration, but he had switched sword hands and healed, as she would. The beautiful wooden dojo floor was stained with blood, sweat, and at least her tears. Right now she needed to stop. She needed a long hot bath. And a doctor. No, just a night's sleep. Maybe a vacation.

He held out his hand and helped her to her feet. Elena was exhausted but exhilarated. She laughed out loud, and he smiled back.

"_Ni una mas_," she said, no more, and he nodded in agreement, still breathing heavily. They bowed to each other then went to the water cooler. He was gentlemanly enough to pour water for her before his, and she thanked him sweetly. Then they both gulped down one cup, and another. Elena poured a cup over her head and shook out her wet curls.

"So," she said nonchalantly but hanging on his answer, which was terribly important to her. She was nervous about the Game; she still felt fragile and vulnerable. "What do you think?"

He didn't ask what she meant. "You can do it," Connor answered. By now he was relaxed, leaning with one shoulder against the wall, but he was looking Elena over with the same critical gaze he'd used the first day they had sparred.

Elena was surprised. She had certainly held her own with him during the demonstrations, and tonight had gone well. Actually, perhaps not really well for either of them, but that was the point wasn't it? Still, fencing in the dojo was not the same as an Immortal challenge. She wasn't completely sure she was ready, but she valued his opinion. If he thought she was up for it—

They drank to each other. Elena looked at the room and gave him a cheerful smile. "You're sensei, so you get to clean up, right?" Her teacher had always made her clean up her own blood. She hoped Connor was different.

"I am, and I do," he agreed. As she got to the door he called her name then came to her, held out his hand, his grey eyes intent upon hers. "Good luck, Elena Duran, wherever your roads may lead you."

She took his hand and covered it with her other hand. "_Gracias, y que Dios os guarde_, Connor MacLeod."

* * *

><p><em>Next chapter: Elena is surprised by an old friend<em>


	7. Letting Go

**Letting Go**

* * *

><p><strong>Friday, 22 January 2044, Basel, Switzerland<strong>

* * *

><p>When she got off the train in Basel at noon, Elena felt another Immortal nearby. <em>"!Cono!"<em> she swore. Not now. Not already. But the Game was the Game, and you didn't get to pick and choose. She scanned the busy station: families, commuters, people with huge bags, vendors with carts of food. It all disappeared from her view the instant she saw her potential enemy… Duncan MacLeod.

Even though she had been thinking about going to see Duncan, his actual presence was like a blow to the solar plexus, and for a split second Elena found herself unable to breathe. He was standing, tall, ramrod straight, as graceful as she remembered, his long black trench coat hiding the sword within. But she knew what was under that coat: broad shoulders, narrow hips. The lion-like power of the man was palpable—she'd always felt it. He was wearing his hair cut above the collar, but long enough to have some curl—and to wrap her fingers through.

When he saw her he smiled, a smile that could have melted her bones. At that moment Elena realized that she loved Duncan MacLeod. That she always had. More than anything at this moment Elena wanted to rush into his arms. Discipline was the only thing that kept her calm. That, and avoiding his warm brown eyes.

They walked toward each other, both smiling, but Elena stopped a few paces away. "How—"

"Connor told me you were traveling," Duncan explained. He looked at her with soft concern. "I thought you could use a friend right now."

Elena found herself smiling through sudden tears, and she dared to reach out and take his hand. Good thing they were both wearing gloves. "_Ay_, Duncan, I know I can always count on you."

Duncan insisted on carrying her bag to a taxi, saw her checked into a hotel, then took her to lunch. That afternoon he waited while she went to the bank then talked to her lawyer, the one that only Lorenzo and she had known about.

"How did it go?" Duncan asked as they walked along the street back to the hotel. It was a beautiful sunny afternoon, and so not too cold.

"He had a packet for Luz Marina Gutierrez. Inside was my husband's last gift to me." Elena lightly touched her choker, sterling silver with the silhouette of a silver-maned black horse with a tiny diamond for an eye.

"It's beautiful," Duncan said, tilting his head to see, then smiled a little. "Lorenzo knew you well."

Elena nodded fiercely. Lorenzo knew how much she loved horses, and that she would never wear a long necklace, as an opponent might grab it in a duel. He'd also known not to give her rings, which might interfere with her swordplay. But she was wearing the emerald bracelet, too. She touched that again, as she'd been touching it ever since the plane went down, thirteen days ago. Elena took a deep breath and went on, "There was also a letter for me. In that letter, Lorenzo said I could tell Marcellino about Immortality. Except for the fighting and decapitating part. Lorenzo didn't want me to mention that."

Duncan looked at her, surprised. "Hmm," he said.

She nodded. "So you see, Lorenzo in the end did agree to tell Marcellino my secret," she said, hoping Duncan would agree with her.

They walked for a moment in silence then Duncan said, "He might have done it to please you, if he thought that's what you wanted. But it might still not be the best idea for Marcellino."

She sighed. "I know you're right, Duncan. You're probably right."

They crossed a street and walked a block before Duncan said, "After 'Mark Johnson' died, I wanted to go back to see my granddaughter in a ballet, and to see Paula and Tom, too, if only from a distance. Methos told me to 'Let that life go.' I went anyway."

"What happened?" Elena asked.

Duncan shrugged slightly, but his smile was achingly wistful. "Methos was right." Duncan looked at Elena. "He's a regular font of wisdom, as you know."

Elena knew very well that Methos was wise. But that didn't mean he was right, not this time. "I raised Marcellino from a baby," she said. "I may not even let him see me, but I… I need to at least look at him. Then I can decide, right? Whether to contact him or not." She leaned closer to Duncan. "As the plane was going down, Lorenzo asked me to give our son a message. A message of love. I might just do it."

Duncan nodded. "If you think it's right."

"I don't know if it's wise or right, or best. Duncan, I don't know anything."

He laughed at that then said "So, on to Rome tomorrow?"

She nodded. "On to Rome. I'm definitely going to say goodbye to Lorenzo. I just hope I don't run into any old-timers," she said, running her hand through her short hair. "They might recognize me, even with my clever disguise."

Duncan looked her over, and she shifted under his gaze. "I meant to tell you," he said. "You look beautiful. I like the short cut. And blonde hair suits you."

Lorenzo liked it too, she thought. Had liked it. Maybe she would leave a lock on his grave.

Elena and Duncan had dinner together that night, telling each other stories from the past forty years. Duncan talked of his life with Susan and their two children. It seemed to come easily; he'd been a widower for over a decade. Elena shared a few stories about Lorenzo, and found that remembering him with a friend did help to ease the tears.

Duncan saw her to her room, and he kissed her hand as he said goodnight. But Elena couldn't let him go. "I need to talk to you about something," she said, making that part clear right away. "Please come in." At least they weren't in his room, she thought as she unlocked her room door. The room was like a million other hotel rooms: a double bed, a dresser built against the wall, two chairs and a small table in front of the lone window, a painting of a duck on the wall, and the smell of cold dust and fake flowers.

"Duncan," she said, sitting on the chair, decidedly **not **on the double bed, "thank you for coming, for helping."

"I'm glad to see you." He sat down on the edge of the bed, facing her, almost close enough to touch. "I'm very sorry about Lorenzo."

Duncan's soft brown eyes and nearness made her uncomfortable, but she took a deep breath and said, "Thank you, Duncan."

He leaned forward, just a little, to ask, "How are you? I mean, besides the obvious."

"Grieving. Hurting. But ready to move on. And to fight again. Connor thought so, too."

Duncan nodded. "He has good instincts."

Talk of Connor could wait. Other things couldn't. "And thank you for coming to my rescue."

He shrugged it off, saying with a smile, "Search and rescue is my job these days."

Fighting duels to the death was their real job. And that meant she should just tell him, just tell him. Just in case. The Game could come at anytime. Also, "the truth between us, always" was a phrase they'd often used. She had to tell him the truth now.

"Thank you also for killing that _pelon_," she began, and Duncan shrugged that off, too. Elena went on, "The one thing I need to tell you now is… I saw you in Menorca. Fighting him."

Duncan nodded. "When Connor told me where you had called from, I realized that it was you I had sensed during the fight. And I know you were scared, and running, and didn't have a sword."

"I did have my sword," Elena said, admitting her weakness. "And I still ran anyway."

"Oh," he said but then shrugged one shoulder. "You weren't ready to fight, not after what happened. We've all been there, Elena, believe me," he said, trying—how sweet of him—to ease her shame. "So I understand why you left before the fight was over, before you knew it was me."

He didn't understand. He hadn't heard what she'd really said. She took a deep breath before clarifying, "I did stay until it was over. And I did know it was you."

"Did you?" Duncan stared at her for a long time, his brows slowly coming together then asked, "Then why didn't you stay around after the fight? Why didn't you let me know you were all right? I spent five more hours looking for you that night, combing the streets, going to every single church and temple and cemetery I could find." Duncan shot to his feet, looming over her, as angry as she had been when a sixteen-year-old Marcellino had been four hours late coming home and never even bothered to call. "Where the hell were you!" Duncan demanded, "And what the hell were you thinking?"

_!Cono!_ "Thinking!" she yelled in return, standing up, and now they were close together, almost nose to nose, and she stepped back because anger was another kind of passion. "I wasn't thinking, Duncan. I'm talking about raw emotions! I panicked and ran, but I was coming back, sword in hand. To see who was fighting. Maybe even… Then you beheaded him, and I ran from _you_—"

"From me?" Duncan broke in, his face going blank with shock. "You ran from me? Did you think I would…" His eyes narrowed. "Were you afraid I'd taken a Dark Quickening?"

"No! I ran because… because I couldn't face you! I was afraid of what might happen, of what _I_ wanted to happen," she cried out, pointing at herself, "and I felt so guilty, so full of…"

Duncan was shaking his head in confusion. "Full of what?"

She paced in the small space, knowing that she had thrown away his sacrifice, ignored him, walked away; actually run away. She owed him an explanation. She sat down again, spreading her hands out in front of her, then looked up at him with a plaintive smile. "Full of lust."

Duncan blinked in surprise then slowly sat down, facing her again.

She also owed him an apology. "Duncan, I'm sorry," she said. "I should have at least told you I was all right. When I did calm down I was still afraid to see you. Because you know how it's always been between us. The heat, Duncan. The attraction. The first time we met we fought, and then…"

"I was there, remember?" Duncan agreed a bit testily. "But, Elena, your husband had just died. I would never have—"

"I wouldn't either," Elena broke in. Duncan was still leaning towards her. His anger had dissipated somewhat. Now his eyes were bright. He was aroused, _!Dios mio!_ She could feel the pulse throbbing in her neck. She really wanted him. The hotel room was claustrophobic, so small that he could easily reach and take her hands. Or she could take his. But she couldn't possibly touch him, not now.

Elena stood again to move away, put some distance between them. She glanced out the window at the cold dark night then turned back to face him. She could smell his unique Duncan scent, and it brought back memories that excited her. 'God help me!' she thought, then tried again to explain. "But I wanted to. I really did, Duncan," she admitted, her voice shaking a little. "I still… even now…"

"Oh." He shook his head. "Look, Elena—"

"No, don't say it. I know I'm a terrible person. A slut." Exactly what Connor had called her years ago, she clearly remembered. And Cassandra. And Methos, too. But not Duncan; never Duncan.

"No—," Duncan began.

"I loved my husband, Duncan," Elena went on. "I did. He was buried only yesterday. Still, seeing you there on the island, I just wanted you, even though I knew it wasn't right. But I've realized…" She put her hands together in front of her body, as if warding him off, though he hadn't moved. "I love you, Duncan," she declared, from her heart. "I've always loved you. I would never have left Lorenzo, or betrayed him, but the fact is I love you, since that first day and forever. Forever for us."

Duncan looked down at his feet, taking several long breaths. She wondered what he was thinking. He had such a generous heart; hopefully he'd forgive her. After all, she had just told him he was irresistibly sexy. Which he was. And that she loved him, which she did. Was he even still angry with her? Would he reject her? Even if he did, she wasn't really ready for another relationship now. They had time. She could wait; she would wait for him. Duncan MacLeod was worth waiting for.

Finally he stood, his eyes intent upon her, his hands still down by his sides, and called to her softly, "_Querida_."

At that familiar endearment, Elena closed her eyes and let out a deep sigh. He loved her and he was forgiving her! She felt herself swaying towards him. But instead she opened her eyes and went to the door, shaking her head, stopping him before he could approach her. He smiled a little, understanding, then walked into the hall. He turned back just beyond the threshold, carefully not touching her. "Elena. I love you, too."

She smiled happily, joyously, a smile she reserved only for a man she loved… a smile only Lorenzo had seen in decades. Ah, hell. There was no fighting her feelings. But she could make damn sure she didn't act on those feelings. Not now, anyway. Not yet. Later, maybe… "Thank you, Duncan," she said. "Good night." She closed the door behind him and went to bed alone.

* * *

><p>The next day on the train to Rome, she said, "Duncan, about what we said to each other last night… I meant it."<p>

"Me, too."

"But now's not the time. You understand? I need to grieve. Lorenzo… it's been only two weeks."

Duncan nodded. "You need time. I know how you feel; when Susan died…" He stared off into space for a moment, lost in remembrance.

Elena took a deep shuddering breath. "We just keep losing them, and not just the mortals. Immortals we love die too, only with fireworks." She looked out the window at the snowy mountains. "Maybe I should go to that convent in France after all."

He smiled then reached up to touch her face but lowered his hand. "It would be a peaceful place for you."

"Maybe later." She didn't feel peaceful right now. But she was at ease with Duncan as a friend. She sat in comfortable silence next to him, watching the countryside roll by.

They arrived in Rome just before dusk, checked their bags at the Termini station, then took a taxi to the Vatican. As she had hoped, the cemetery was deserted. They went to nearby graves before cautiously making their way to the Ponti family crypt. In comparison with the large, gleaming marble burial sites of popes, cardinals and princes, the Ponti granite crypt was almost humble, with only a life-size statue of St. Michael the Archangel holding a sword. The location inside Vatican City, however, was a prime piece of real estate for the deceased of only very important Roman families. Elena looked around. No relatives and no reporters. No one to recognize her. Good.

Elena didn't have the key to get inside. She'd have to be content with gazing at Lorenzo and Gina's final resting place from the outside. Elena and Duncan stood side by side without speaking, surrounded by the all the beautiful statuary of the various crypts, tombs, and mausoleums. They were surrounded by angels, crosses, saints, and Madonnas, but Elena felt no comfort. Instead, again the sad tears came.

"I feel lost and alone," she said.

"I know," Duncan said.

The words were simple, but the feeling was immense. And he did know. All Immortals knew this particular feeling. Many mortals knew it too, just not over and over again. She took Duncan's arm and leaned her head against the outside of his shoulder. She didn't dare do what she really wanted, bury her face in his chest and bawl her eyes out. She'd already cried in her hotel room, but seeing the crypt made it totally real.

Lorenzo was gone, his brown eyes, his slightly crooked smile, his zest for life. His obvious and passionate love for his family, for their son, for his four sisters and their families, even for the always difficult Gina. His love for her, Elena. Oh, she'd cry again. Alone. The kind of comfort Duncan could give was decidedly not what she needed at this time.

After a while she straightened up, and they slowly walked out of the ancient cemetery. By the time they got to the cemetery gates their slow movement and being in the January Roman climate near sundown had made her cold. She shivered, and Duncan turned to her.

"I'm fine," she answered his unspoken question. "I think I know where I… where we might find Marcellino tonight. If he's not home, there are several places he likes to go unwind, unless I'm out of date."

"Lead the way."

Elena and Duncan were almost to the first establishment, a tiny and eclectic bar in the outskirts of Rome with a great array of wines and the best tiramisus in the city (Gina Ponti had introduced her grandson to the place), when Elena spotted her son walking on the other side of the street. She tensed, grabbed Duncan's arm and squeezed, and he put his hand over hers in a loving, friendly, comforting gesture. They shifted location so that she could see her son's face then stood at a distance.

Marcellino was arm in arm with his pretty blonde fiancée, Angelina. They were both wearing furs—fake, of course—against the cold night, and he had on that favorite fedora of his. Elena was glad to see him with the woman he loved. Unlike his father, Elena didn't think Marcellino had it in him to stray; plus, at a time of sorrow like this, people clung to their loved ones fiercely. Marcellino had learned this lesson from her when his much loved _Nonno_, Lorenzo's father, had died.

Elena wanted to cling to her beloved son fiercely. The longing to just hug him was so strong she started to pull away from Duncan. His grip on her arm tightened for an instant. Then he released her. It was, after all, her decision. She made her decision and stayed where she was.

Marcellino looked as sad as she felt. She sighed. She couldn't talk to him in her current emotional state—not to mention his current emotional state—plus she could NOT reveal herself to Angelina. If only he'd been alone.

Then, just before the couple went in the door, they stopped briefly. Angelina said something low, and he inclined his head to hear then smiled at her. He still looked sad, but now Elena was glad he was not alone. Angelina had made him smile. Elena had clearly seen their love for each other just last month, when Marcellino had announced their upcoming wedding to his family, a wedding Elena would unfortunately miss. What Elena would give to be able to… Well, Marcellino was in good hands. And he certainly did not need or deserve his 'dead' mother throwing a bomb into his life then leaving, which is what Elena would have to do. They both had to grieve; unfortunately they couldn't do it together.

At least she'd seen him. Her heart felt heavy in her chest. Maybe she could talk to him another time. Or maybe not at all. Not ever. She sighed. She didn't have to make this difficult, painful decision now. What would be best for her now, and for Marcellino also, was a little distance. And a little time. Time did indeed heal even emotional wounds, or at least turn them from critical agony to a dull ache. But right now she felt it almost hard to breathe. It seemed that Cassandra, and Methos, and Duncan had all been right. So Elena would leave. For now.

Duncan, ever attentive, steered her away. "Shall I find a hotel?" he asked. "Or do you want to go eat dinner, or just talk?"

Talking did sound good, but she suddenly wished Cassandra were with her instead of Duncan. Elena could talk to Cassandra with no… complications. "Thank you, Duncan, for everything. But I just want to leave here. Tonight. Right now." She put her hand lightly on his forearm and looked into his eyes before saying, "And I think I need to go on alone."

Duncan nodded and gently squeezed her hand. "Since you're ready."

She agreed with a short nod then got into the taxi he called, leaning back and closing her eyes. The ride back to Termini station was silent, except for the driver's various curses at the brutal traffic and idiot drivers. Elena and Duncan got their bags and took the express train to Fiumicino airport. She didn't talk then either. She'd run out of words.

But once they were at the airport, she had to say goodbye. She didn't set down her bag, though; she didn't want to hug. " Duncan, _gracias, che_," she said, looking into his beautiful eyes. _"_For coming to rescue me, for putting up with me, for loving me. I know I can always count on you."

"I feel the same. And you're welcome, _querida,"_ he replied. He took her hand and kissed it. Then as she turned to walk away, he asked, "Convent in France?"

She shook her head. "Uluru."

"Australia?" He considered. "Walkabout would be good, and you've done it before."

She nodded. "I need the silence, and the aloneness."

He nodded then said, "_Hasta la proxima_."

"Until we meet again, Duncan." They shared a promise with their smiles. "_Que Dios os guarde."_

* * *

><p><strong>Translations:<strong>

_Seiza (Jap) _– sitting on the ground with one's feet underneath

_Cono (Span) _– damn

_Que Dios os guarde (Span) _– God keep you


	8. Beginnings

**Beginnings**

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><p><strong>Australia<strong>

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><p>Air danced and shimmered above the rock outcroppings in the distance, and the blazing sun beat down upon Elena's head and shoulders. With every breath she tasted dust, and her eyeballs itched with dryness. She drank the last few drops from her canteen then took off her hat and her red neckerchief and wiped her face then the back of her neck, trying to cool off. It had to be forty degrees, at least.<p>

She needed water. Happily, not too far away, the scrubby bushes were overshadowed by a line of trees, which meant a stream. Elena walked on, a canteen on a thong around her neck, a pack over one shoulder, a spear in her hand, and a knife and her sword at her belt—all her current possessions.

Months in the Outback had hardened her body and darkened her skin but lightened her spirit. When she had arrived at Uluru last year, she had gone to an isolated village in the Outback, one she had visited in the eighteenth century. Back then she'd been trying to get away from the Inquisition and from the Game to the most isolated spot she could think of.

This time around she'd needed peace, but more, she'd needed to be alone. For the last four decades she had immersed herself in deep, loving relationships, especially with mortals. But that part of her life was over, and she needed to grieve, let it go then start her own immortal life again. She had found a guide in the village and traveled with him for a while to get her bearings, then she'd set out alone.

For the wilderness provided not just solitude but a challenge. Walkabout was a rite of passage, a physical and spiritual journey. The Outback was one of the most inhospitable, dangerous desert-like regions on Earth. She'd had to go into survival mode, dig deep, and become re-acquainted with herself, with the 'real' Elena Duran. In the bush she had no husbands, no children, no sensei. No students and no friends, thankfully no Immortals. Just Elena and sweet Jesus.

The hard work she had done just surviving had left her 'lean and mean' physically and at peace spiritually. She was ready to face anything. But she still needed to drink to survive.

She smelled and heard the water before she saw it—a softness to the air, a faint splashing sound. Her pace quickened, and she pushed aside branches in her hurry. She already had the cap off her canteen, and she knelt at the stream's edge to submerge the canteen in the water.

Which was exactly what the crocodile was waiting for. The enormous beast lunged for her, its jaws snapping tight around the canteen, dirty yellowed teeth showing against the mud-green skin, barely missing her fingers. Elena yelped and instinctively jumped back, dropping both the spear and the pack. Her heels dug in, and her neck felt like it was breaking. The tail of the crocodile thrashed back and forth, churning the water, and Elena grimly held on.

In the next moment, she knew she'd be pulled into the water, dragged into the depths by the croc to be drowned then eaten, one limb at a time. She pulled the knife from her belt and slit the thong, falling back on her ass at the sudden release, even as the croc slithered sideways with a splash. Then she scrambled to her feet and ran—because the crocodile was coming out of the water after her like a freight train. She couldn't outrun it or outswim it, but thank God she could outclimb it, and the nearest spindly tree became her lifesaver.

She scraped her hands and skinned a knee going up, but she made it to a branch then looked down at the crocodile. At least she still had her sword at her belt and could stab it from above if necessary. But the animal lost interest almost immediately, slowly turning then waddling back into the stream.

Meanwhile Elena wrapped her arms around the trunk and held on, taking great sobbing gulps of air. She hadn't been ready for _that_. Then she started laughing, with a touch of hysteria. It had been exactly like that scene from the movie_ Crocodile Dundee _from sixty years ago. Except Elena had not dived after the animal to kill it, like the actor had.

And no hero had appeared to rescue her, either from the crocodile or from that pack of wild dogs that had wanted to tear her apart last month. After those experiences, most of her other troubles seemed… not that much trouble.

Except now she was up a tree with no water and no pack and no spear and no knife. She sat in the tree for long minutes, regaining her serenity, and when she finally made it back to the ground she said, _"Basta!"_ Enough. That four-meter crocodile was the last animal that would have the opportunity to eat her. It was time to get back to 'civilization,' where the worst thing that could happen to her was that she'd be beheaded.

Elena stood for a while under the tree, eyeing the river, before she felt enough strength in her legs to walk. Her pack and her spear and knife were still near the near the river's edge, so she went back cautiously then used a stick to pull them closer to her, staying well back from the water. She walked a mile upstream before she dared approach the water again to drink.

Then she got her bearings and began walking back to the village where she'd started Walkabout many months before. The Aborigines, who by now knew she couldn't stay dead, called her the 'Woman of Life,' as they had done several centuries before. They expected her back.

Hopefully, others expected her back as well.

* * *

><p><strong>14 April 2045, Rome, Italy<strong>

* * *

><p>Elena breathed deeply of the cool spring air. Even in the congested city of Rome, amongst the marble and granite of the Vatican cemetery, the scents of new grass and fragrant flowers hung in the air. Life springs forth, always. Elena had heard that message at the Easter vigil mass last Sunday, and it was eternally true.<p>

Though people still died, of course. That was all part of God's plan. Lorenzo would have been sixty-three today: April fourteenth. Elena stood in front of the crypt, missing him. Someone else missed him, too; a bouquet of fragrant lilacs lay propped up against the marble wall. She bent to look at the card. It read simply "For Papa" and the handwriting was that of their son. Elena was sure that Marcellino brought flowers for her, too, on her "birthday." And for his grandmother's birthday as well. "We raised a good son together, Lorenzo," Elena said, smiling even as she wiped tears away. "We had a good life."

On a day like today, she and Lorenzo would have gone riding, had a beautiful dinner, made love. Celebrated life. She had to learn to celebrate without him, and it was more difficult than she'd thought, even a year later. At least now, after spending that time getting re-acquainted with herself, by herself, she knew what she needed to do. She needed to reconnect. Because she had learned that she needed people, and especially that Tennyson had been right when he penned, "'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all."

"Adios, Lorenzo," she murmured. She'd never forget him, as she'd never forgotten anyone she'd loved. But her story with him in it was over. Her story with Marcellino might have more chapters; she still wasn't sure. Not yet. Regardless, it was time to move on, to reconnect with someone else who loved her.

She went to a café and called Duncan MacLeod. He didn't answer, so she left a message then finished her lunch and wandered the streets of Rome. Dinner went by, and she was in her hotel getting ready for bed when he finally called.

"Welcome back!" he said, and at the sound of his voice she had to sit down, her heart was beating so hard. "Where are you?" he asked.

"Rome," she managed. "I want to see you, Duncan."

"I want to see you, too," he replied, and she could hear the smile in his words.

"You are ready for me, right?" she asked. "There's no one else right now?" Because no matter how wonderful Duncan MacLeod was, or perhaps because he was so wonderful, she could never share him with another woman.

"I've been waiting for you, _querida_," he answered, and now his words were soft and warm. "Come soon."

* * *

><p><strong>Caen<strong>**, France**

* * *

><p>When the train reached Caen the next day, Elena saw Duncan from her window, standing behind the barrier, a magnificent man in his prime, dressed in a dark trench coat with a short black haircut, a mustache… a mustache… her mouth opened, her heart fluttered. She'd never seen Duncan MacLeod with a mustache before. He looked so… Italian. Or Spanish. Latin. So sexy. She was chafing to get off the train, bag in hand, and as soon as it came to a full stop she jumped off then threaded her way through the crowd, rushing, until she got to him.<p>

She dropped her duffle and catapulted herself into his arms. He swung her around, just like lovers in a movie, and she laughed. "A mustache! I love the mustache! You look like… like Zorro! I love Zorro!"

And when they reached his little house on the north edge of town she was already kicking off her shoes and shedding her coat while he slammed the door behind them and locked it. She looked around her quickly, noting the dominance of muted reds, the painted porcelain Chinese lion sitting in front of the stone fireplace, the small, bright kitchen near a pair of glass doors that led to the courtyard outside. And was that a Monet? But she'd look at Duncan's artwork later. Another door led to the bedroom, and Elena headed there at a run.

Duncan was right behind her, and he grinned and immediately followed her lead as she started peeling off clothes. Her breath came gaspingly and thick. She wanted Duncan MacLeod so badly, had wanted him for nearly a year and a half, and except for the deeply emotional stop in Rome, the endless trip from Australia to France had mostly been an agony of waiting. Now the waiting was over.

Stark naked, she was suddenly aware she was not at her best. Her rounded curves had melted away in the harshness of the Outback, leaving only the necessary skin, bones and wiry muscle needed for survival. But Duncan had seen her in even worse situations, and his love had never dimmed. As she looked at him, though, she could see his naked body was still male perfection, and she felt like the ugly duckling. "I know I need to gain a little weight."

"French food will do that," he opined, "but you'll excuse me if I can't wait." He easily picked her up, put her on his bed and lay on her, covering her mouth with his. She arched her back, pressing her whole body against his. His roaming hands touched every part of her he could reach, but after a moment he stopped and pulled back. "You're crying," he said in a loving, soft voice.

"_Si_. I've cried a lot since last January. But these are happy tears, Duncan."

He rolled off her, clearly frustrated but trying not to show it. He was a little out of breath too. "How about we go more slowly? It has been over forty years, with husbands and wives between. Let's talk a little. Get to know each other again."

She sighed, staring up at his ceiling. "You think so?"

"Sure. So, Elena, how was the Outback?"

"Hot. Dangerous. And lonely." She turned to him. "Please kiss me, Duncan. I'm finished crying. I needed a moment to transition from eating lizards, then I stopped at the cemetery in Rome on Lorenzo's birthday… But I'm fine now. Now I just want… you. You and that sexy mustache, which tickles."

"Are you—"

But he didn't finish his question because Elena reached down between his legs and squeezed then pressed against him. "Love me," she whispered, her hot breath on his face.

"Aye._"_ He smiled then did kiss her.

"_Ay_, Duncan," she murmured.

* * *

><p>It wasn't until the next morning that she noticed the lavender plant in his kitchen potted in a colorful ceramic bowl.<p>

"Really? I left that plant with Cassandra," she said.

Duncan nodded as he got out coffee cups from the cupboard. "She sent it last week." Then he made a great show of gifting Elena with it, again.

"It's about to bloom," she said, inhaling deeply, her fingers gently encircling the slender green stalks. "But how did Cassandra know when to send it? I didn't tell anyone I was coming."

"She is a witch," Duncan said with a shrug.

"Yes, that's right," Elena remembered. "The Witch of Donan Wood."

"Um-hum. Coffee?" he offered Elena.

"Of course!" she said, noting with satisfaction that he had an espresso machine. The MacLeods had taught her about good quality single-malt Scotch. She had taught them how to drink wonderfully strong coffee. Duncan carried the tray into the courtyard behind his house, and they sat in the soft morning sunshine. The taste of the coffee brought her back to Argentina, to Spain, and to Rome. But that was in the past. Today she was here with her love, sitting in France in his small courtyard and listening to the eager springtime courtship of the birds.

"Can we plant your lavender here in the courtyard?" she asked him.

He stood and gave and elaborate bow. _"Mi casa es tu casa."_

Elena took Duncan at his word and moved in with him. Not that she had much to move, just a duffel bag of clothes and a sword. Well, France was a good place to go shopping. And she had plenty of time to do that. Duncan often went to work early and came home late, sometimes worked double shifts or weekends, and was called out at odd hours day and night. Rescue workers didn't do "regular hours."

Still, she and Duncan found time as often as possible to push all the potted plants and furniture back and spar in the little courtyard. Working was good; making love was great; but fencing was necessary.

Elena had energy to burn, so within a week she joined a group of _traceurs_ in their jaunts about the city. All the young men were quite eager to teach her the _parcours _techniques of swinging, balance, cat crawl and others, and she was a quick study. The third day she fell and broke her arm; she hid it from them, waited to heal then continued. It was a great way to learn the streets.

"You're going all around the city without your sword?" Duncan asked her, a little concerned.

"I have a stiletto, and I'm with the boys," she said with a shrug. "Plus any Immortal would have to catch me." She beckoned for Duncan to follow her outside to his courtyard then took a running leap, climbed up the wall of the house to the upper window and muscled herself onto the sill. Balancing, she scrambled onto the roof and grinned down at him.

"You're right; I wouldn't be able to catch you," Duncan called up to her.

But she was still restless. He had tales about daring sea rescues. Cassandra and Connor could tell stories about their students, about filling young minds and strengthening young bodies. Elena was spending her days vaulting over town sculptures, climbing up and down walls, and going nowhere. She bought clothes from the local shops and brought home fruits and vegetables from the farmers' market. She did some cooking. She even cleaned house.

Not much substance there.

Three weeks after she arrived, Duncan told her, "You need a job, not a hobby."

Elena had been thinking the same thing. It took her nine days of driving deep into the countryside around Caen before she found what she was looking for.

"It's perfect, Duncan," she told him as they sat in the courtyard that night while stew simmered inside on the stove. "A riding stable owned by the Oiseaux family with fifteen horses."

"The bird family?" Duncan said with a smile, and he reached over to fill her glass with wine.

Elena smiled back as she nodded. "The name is what caught my attention at the feed store yesterday. Henri and Lucille Oiseaux started the stable twenty-two years ago; she was an Olympic equestrienne; he's a horse trainer. She was the riding instructor at their stable."

"Was?" Duncan queried.

"She has cancer," Elena said quietly, and Duncan winced and shook his head. "She's mostly housebound now, and they don't expect her to last the year," Elena went on. "Henri and Jacques—that's their son, he's about fifteen—are trying desperately to keep the place going without her. About half their horses are boarders, so that brings in some steady income, but they've had to sell some of their lesson horses. Though the feed-store mavens said there's one special horse he's determined to hang on to, no matter what."

"Probably the one his wife rode in the Olympics," Duncan said. "Or his first horse."

Elena nodded; such a horse was like family. Then she went on with the description. "Jacques comes from school, kisses his maman, grabs some food, then rushes out to the stables, where his father has been working all day." Marcellino hadn't been that hard a worker at that age, but he hadn't needed to be. He'd been just as caring and thoughtful a boy as Jacques seemed. Now that she was back in Europe, only a day's travel from Rome, Elena missed Marcellino more fiercely than before.

"You didn't learn all this at the feed store," Duncan was saying.

"I spied on the place today," Elena admitted. "And I talked with their maid, Maryse, at the market. She's been with the family for years; she cooks and cleans and takes care of Mme. Oiseaux. They have only one stable hand, and he's part-time; they used to have three. The place is just barely kept up, but it's shabby."

"And you want to work there," Duncan said.

Elena nodded vigorously. "I could help," she said. "Really help."

He grinned at her. "Teaching? Or shoveling manure?"

She grinned back. "I can do both." Then she sighed. "But I doubt they can afford to hire me, even cheap. If I show up as Ms. Moneybags and say I don't need the money, they won't trust me. And if I say I want to 'help' because of his sick wife et cetera, M. Oiseaux's French pride will kick in and he'll refuse me completely."

Duncan nodded and sipped at his wine then suggested: "Let him help you. Tell M. Oiseaux you love horses. Tell him you want to ride, and ask if he'll let you work off the riding fee in chores. You could show up in worn clothes, as if you couldn't afford new."

"Like your old cotton work-shirt," Elena said.

"The one you wanted to throw out," Duncan agreed. "Aren't you glad I stopped you?"

Elena didn't answer; she was thinking about what to wear. Her jeans were still too new; she'd have to wash them a lot, maybe even tear them. And she'd need an old hat. New boots—even expensive boots—were all right; they were well suited for working around horses who might step on you and break bones in your feet. "What if he asks why I don't need to be paid in money?" Elena said. "Or where I live?"

"Tell him the truth: you're living with a friend."

"He'll think I'm a kept woman, especially if I show up in your too-big shirt," Elena said. "And that I'm kept by a cheap man," she teased, "who won't even give me the money for riding. Or decent clothes."

"Or a car," Duncan added. "It would look better if you came by bus. I need my car to get to work."

"I was only late once," Elena said.

"Twice."

She wrinkled her nose at him but decided to buy a used car tomorrow. Along with an old hat. In fact, she'd seen a great riding hat in a little antique store just the week before.

"After you've been there a while," Duncan said, "I'm sure you'll charm them into letting you do more, especially when they see you ride and find out you're from an Argentine horse stable. Maybe they'll even start feeding you lunch."

Yes, this could work. Elena set down her wine as she stood then straddled Duncan's legs as she sat atop his thighs. His hands settled on her hips, and he smiled up at her. "You are so wise," she told him then licked the taste of wine from his lips before kissing him thoroughly. His hands moved lower then pulled her closer, and she felt the rumble of his laughter against her breasts.

* * *

><p>The next day Elena bought a car and a hat, ate lunch then waited impatiently until after the boy came home from school so she could meet the whole family. She drove fast to the stables, then drove slowly down the lane, watching the horses grazing in the field. Four bays, three chestnuts, a big black mare near the fence… all beautiful. More horses were in a distant pasture, enjoying spring grass.<p>

Elena parked her recently-purchased, beat-up Citroen near the stable. The family home lay a little farther down the lane. She stood just outside the stable, looking in. The floor was mostly clean, and halters and lead ropes hung neatly next to fifteen of the twenty-four stall doors. The tack room was to her right, and the saddles and bridles and leather girths were carefully arranged by size, all seeming well-used but of good quality and taken care of.

As she called out, "M. Oiseaux!" a large collie came racing around the side of the stable then stopped to examine her from a distance. He wasn't barking but his tail wasn't wagging either. Elena held out her hand so he could smell her then talked to him, softly, in French. By the time Oiseaux emerged from the far end of the stable, cleaning his hands on a rag, Elena was petting the collie.

"_Viens_!" he said harshly, and the dog went to his master's side. There was hay in the man's short gray hair, and he smelled of horse, sweat, and manure.

Elena smiled. She felt like she was home in Argentina again. "Henri Oiseaux?"

_"Oui. _May I help you_?" _he asked, squinting a little against the mid afternoon sun at her back.

"My name is Luz Marina Gutierrez," she answered in passable French, her accent a mixture of Italian and Spanish. "I grew up on an _estancia_ in Argentina, and I love horses. I want to ride."

He shook his head. "We're not offering lessons now."

"I don't need lessons," Elena said. "I just want to ride." Before he could mention the cost, Elena said, "But I'd like to work off the riding fees in chores." She gave him her friendliest 'we can help each other' smile. "If I may?"

He looked her over, obviously evaluating her clothes, then glanced at the old car before looking again at her boots. "I'll need to watch you ride first."

"Of course."

"It's four to one," he warned. "Four hours of chores for one hour in the saddle. And the chores are dirty work."

Elena grinned. "Horses produce manure," she said, shrugging.

He seemed tempted; no doubt the row of dirty stalls behind him was a powerful incentive. But he asked, "Any references?"

She shook her head then leaned slightly toward him. "Test me, Monsieur. Let me show you what I can do."

"_D'accord_," he said then pointed to a muck rake and a bucket. After she'd cleaned two stalls and refilled the water buckets, he came back, glanced into the stalls then had her follow him to the work room. Strips of leather lay on a table, along with a rag and a small bottle of soap. "Finish the bridle," he said and left her to that task. Elena started singing Spanish songs to herself as she worked, oiling the leather, feeling for worn spots, and then putting all the buckles and bands together again. She found him in the feed room, measuring out the evening grain rations, and she held up the bridle for his inspection.

"Quick," he said with approval and not a little surprise.

Four centuries of practice certainly made a difference. Elena just nodded and smiled and tried to look helpful. "Shall I feed the horses?"

Just then Jacques came into the stable, stopping short when he saw her, then coming near. His father introduced them and explained, "Mlle. Gutierrez is helping us today."

And tomorrow, too, if the rest of this interview went well. "Please call me Luz, it's easier," she said, shaking Jacques' hand. Jacques had the same reaction to her most teenage boys had, and many older boys, too. He couldn't even stammer out a greeting, and she gave him a friendly smile. He was small for his age, but wiry.

Oiseaux gestured to the feed buckets, each neatly labeled, and Elena and Jacques loaded them on a cart and went to the stalls, matching name to name. Eight of the name plates on the stall doors were simple plaques stamped with black letters; the other seven were beautifully hand-carved wood. When she ran her thumb over a raised sunburst on Hyperion's nameplate, Jacques said, "Maman and I hand-carved the nameplates for our family horses. The others are boarders. Most of the horses get the same ration," Jacques went on as he poured grain into a manger. "But three of them are on senior feed, and one is still a filly. She has a lot of energy, so she's in the biggest stall."

Elena understood the need for room to move. She and Jacques put hay and water in each of the stalls. The father watched—but didn't offer to help—as she hauled around hay bales and heavy buckets. As Elena felt the strain of the heavy work on her muscles, she thought, "It's a good thing I've spent the last few weeks pulling myself up walls!"

Then—finally!—they picked up the halters and lead ropes and went to fetch the horses from the fields. Elena had been looking forward to that for days.

Jacques went to the far field by himself; she and the father went to the field nearby. Oiseaux watched her closely while she slipped the halter over a chestnut gelding's head. "That's Hyperion," he said, and she stroked the white star shaped like a sunburst on his forehead, murmuring softly in Spanish then led him around the field a bit until Oiseaux gave her a nod to lead Hyperion back to the barn. She talked to him all the way then jogged back to the field to get another. Horse after horse was brought in, and soon the barn was filled with the sound of contented crunching.

Elena was in horse heaven. After the third animal or so she had totally forgotten about trying to impress Oiseaux. Hyperion was done with his grain, so after asking permission, she put him in cross ties and groomed him. Clouds of dust and hair rose about her. She picked out bits of mud and manure from his hooves. She was singing again, and when he snuffled into her hair, she kissed his nose and laughed aloud.

She looked up to see Oiseaux watching her, a wistful expression on his face before he cleared his throat and turned away. Maybe his wife liked to sing, too. Elena patted Hyperion and put him back in his stall to finish his hay. "_Viens_," Oiseaux said and led her down the aisle, introducing her to the horses she hadn't brought in.

They were almost at the last stall and she was thinking, "This will be great. That chestnut is a big baby, and the black mare might give me a little trouble, but nothing I can't—" Her very thoughts stopped in their tracks as she gazed at the last animal, the young filly in the big stall with the hand-carved nameplate that read "Mignone" and was decorated with a circlet of tiny stars.

For a moment Elena couldn't close her mouth; then she murmured, _"Madre de Dios!"_ This had to be the horse he would never sell.

"You like her?" Oiseaux asked.

"Monsieur!" she exclaimed. A silver grey filly, dark grey mane and tail, intelligent brown eyes, fifteen hands of undoubted Arabian royalty. She was one of the most magnificent racehorses Elena had ever encountered, ever. Elena had touched all the other horses; with this one she turned to Oiseaux and asked, "May I?"

"If she'll let you," he said, sounding amused, for like most thoroughbreds, the filly was high strung. She pulled back and stomped angrily at the ground.

Jacques had paused in sweeping the aisle to join them, and he said eagerly, "Her racing name is Reine des Etoiles."

"Queen of Stars," Elena murmured. Royalty indeed. Not a circlet of stars, a crown.

"She's just Mignone here, the sweet one," his father explained. "She came to us only recently."

"She has two years, two and a half?" Elena asked, evaluating the filly's leggy build with a practiced eye. The filly was a winner but didn't much like strangers; she needed to be socialized more.

"Two years four months," Oiseaux replied. "She can start to race next year—after she is trained."

"And you're just the man to do it, aren't you?" Elena said.

A shadow of a smile appeared on his face, the first she had seen. "_Oui_," he agreed, watching his horse.

Elena joined him in studying the filly admiringly for a few moments, until Mignone settled down again. "May I ask—"

"How I got her? Her dam was a champion; I knew it the moment I laid eyes on her, before her first race. I bet everything I had on her."

"And Mignone was your prize."

"My prize," he agreed. "I had to wait until the dam foaled. She had twins. Mignone was the stronger, _la crème de la crème_. Her dam's owner openly wept when I chose her."

"I believe it," Elena agreed, noting Mignone's deep chest. "I'd love to see her run!"

Jacques said, "She's off like a rifle shot, and never slows down. When she lets me ride her, I can't hold her back."

Elena turned to—she hoped—her new boss. "Monsieur, I can free up some of your time so you can work with Mignone."

"I hope so, Mademoiselle," he said. Then he smiled at her, for the first time, and she could see the shine in his eyes. "You shall come meet my wife now," he said. "And tomorrow you can come back and ride."

Elena was tired when she got back to the house after nightfall. No _parcours_ anymore, except possibly on her days off, and there wouldn't be many of those. She'd have to call Lucien and let him know. She took her boots off in the courtyard then brushed them before carrying them inside. Duncan had gotten home early enough today to make a real dinner, and the small kitchen smelled of butter and garlic. She inhaled appreciatively—Duncan really was trying to fatten her up, and in spite of all the exercise she was getting, she had already gained a few pounds, all muscle. He was setting the table, a glass in each hand, and she leaned across the center of the table to kiss him. "Scampi?" she asked.

"Yes." He sniffed at her. "You've been in a barn."

"All afternoon," she said, smiling. "The plan worked! They said I can come back tomorrow and ride then do more chores and ride again. And, Duncan, I have seen the most amazing filly!"

He smiled. "Tell me all about it at dinner. After your shower?"

She grinned at him. "Maybe you can help me get the hay out of my hair. And some of the dirt, the manure. I really need help in the shower."

Duncan turned off the heat for his sauce. "If I must," he said, with a long-suffering sigh and a very happy smile.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Continued in "Racing Time"<strong>_

* * *

><p><strong>Translations:<strong>

_Parcours (French) _– street game where _traceurs _use regular urban landscape as obstacle course

_Estancia (Span) _– Argentine farm/ranch estate

_D'accord (French) – _agreed

_Viens (French) _- come


	9. Racing Time

**Racing Time**

* * *

><p><strong>Caen, France<strong>

* * *

><p>The lavender grew as the days grew longer. Duncan kept rescuing people, and Elena kept shoveling cartloads of manure. She also rode every day. After a few weeks, M. Oiseaux invited her to lunch at his home instead of eating outside by herself.<p>

"I don't want to be any trouble," Elena said.

"Not at all," he murmured. "Maryse can easily cook for one more, and she makes delicious soups," he said with a wave of one hand then looked at the farmhouse and added quietly, "And my wife would appreciate the company." He gave Elena a wry smile. "She has heard all my stories and jokes a thousand times over."

So Elena began eating lunch with the Oiseaux. Elena usually stayed for a time after the meal was over, enjoying a cup of espresso and chatting with Mme. Oiseaux while M. Oiseaux went back to work outside and Maryse washed dishes in the kitchen.

As the days went by the two women discussed horses, wine, movies, clothes—and even swords. Mme. Oiseaux' first love had been an Olympic fencer, and he had introduced her to the ancient art. Elena moved through lunges, envelopments and ripostes, as the other woman reminisced.

"Please, call me Lucille," the Frenchwoman said one day. "And may I call you Luz?"

"Of course," Elena said. "You know, both our names mean 'light' in different languages."

"I know. We were meant to meet be _amies,"_ Lucille replied, and within a day M. Oiseaux had become Henri, and Elena was officially a family friend. Even so, they did not discuss the cancer or Lucille's approaching death. Lucille had not yet accepted her situation and was clinging to hope. On warm days, she came outside and sat in the sunshine to watch the horses. After the horses were brought in from the fields, Jacques or Henri pushed her wheelchair through the stable, as she didn't have the strength to walk very far. She spoke to each horse in turn, handing out carrots and patting noses.

"You ride very well," Lucille said to Elena one day after lunch. "Can you teach?"

Elena nodded. "I've taught many people how to ride." Many many people, she added to herself.

"Henri and I were wondering if you would like to teach here." She finished off her glass of wine, her too-thin fingers holding tight. "We would pay you, of course, a percentage of the lesson fees. He thought perhaps you could use the cash?"

Elena was totally aware that teaching had been Lucille's specialty, when she'd been healthy. What a shame. "Absolutely," Elena agreed, for it would help the family, and she had been about to suggest the same thing, but it was much better coming from them. "I'd love it." On her way home that day, she went to the feed store to announce there would be riding lessons again at the Oiseaux stables, starting in July, with herself as the instructor.

* * *

><p>At the first lesson, dressed all in black, Elena ran out of the stable, leaped onto the black mare without benefit of stirrups, and cajoled the mare into rearing up onto her hind legs. The stunned students clapped.<p>

"We don't teach stunts here," Henri told her after, disapproving.

"Of course not, Monsieur. This is just theater, so they'll come."

And come they did, for everyone wanted to meet the wild senorita with the black mane that matched her mount's. New riders and students, mostly young men and teenage boys, then the young men's women and the boys' families. Elena, still wearing all black but with a proper riding helmet and few if any 'stunts', smiled at them all. Two of Jacques' school friends volunteered to muck stables. Henri hired them, and Elena smiled at them a lot.

When people came, they found healthy, well-trained horses, excellent equipment, and serious instruction. Elena hand-matched each horse and rider and introduced them to each other. She told them, "Talk to your horse. Call him by name. Take a few minutes to get acquainted. When you get on, pat his neck and thank him for letting you on his back. Horses are like three-year-old children, just bigger and stronger. Don't fear them. Be firm, be consistent, and let them know you're in charge. And also enjoy them. Love them. They will respond."

In August, she offered a special two-day clinic for experienced riders, while Jacques led the trail rides for their family members and other tourists. It went so well that they planned several more for the year.

The long summer days provided plenty of sunshine, and Duncan came often to the stables to ride. Henri, initially skeptical, soon changed his opinion of Duncan. "He has an excellent seat," Henri observed as Duncan took a horse over the jumps.

"Yes, indeed," Lucille murmured in agreement then winked at Elena. The two of them shared a private smile. After lunch that day, during which Duncan had impressed all the Oiseaux family with his knowledge of horses, Lucille confided to Elena, "I approve of your 'friend'."

Elena smiled and nodded, unsurprised; no woman who met Duncan could help adoring him.

Henri apparently also approved. He was already asking Duncan for advice on how to train the young and difficult Mignone. Duncan turned to Elena, and Lucille joined in, and soon the four of them had mapped out a thorough training schedule. Henri looked at the paper then at Elena and said, "Can you help me with this?"

"_Bien sur_," she said, utterly delighted.

Then Henri looked at Duncan, who offered, "I'll come when I can, if you like." Henri shook Duncan's hand and opened a bottle of wine.

"A toast," Lucille offered, her glass raised high. "To Mignone!"

* * *

><p>At the end of August, Lucille's brother Paul arrived for a week, having left his wife and two sons, who hadn't wanted to come, home in Rouen. Paul worked with computers, and he had never really taken to <em>"les chevaux de Lucie,"<em> but he was willing to do the hard manual labor that was needed. The second day Paul was so stiff he could hardly move, so he spent the day with his sister, drinking herbal tea and laughing about their childhood escapades. He also updated all their computer systems.

"He's doing more good with her in the house than he is out here," Henri opined.

While Lucille napped on the third day of his visit, Elena gave Paul some carrots and introduced him to their gentle giant, Claude. The following day Paul spent the morning going over old photo albums and vids with his sister. That afternoon Elena cajoled Paul into getting onto Claude's back, and by the end of the week Paul was riding and loving it.

That Saturday—Elena was coming six days a week now—Paul ate his final lunch at the farmhouse then said farewell. Henri drove him to the train station, and Jacques went to the stable. Elena stayed with Lucille. "I don't believe it," Lucille complained to Elena. "I spent years trying to convince him how wonderful horses are, and you got him riding in a week!"

Elena smiled. "Sometimes we don't listen to those who love and know us best. We get stubborn; want to do things our own way. The people we love don't count—we've already heard them so many times. So it takes a total stranger to make us see what we've been told all along."

"Yes, and of course, you're a beautiful woman, Paul liked you, you smiled and flirted a little, Jacques thinks you're wonderful, and—"

"Lucille!" Elena exclaimed.

"No, I didn't mean it. I'm sorry. I … I don't know why I said that."

Elena knew why. She came to sit on the couch next to Lucille. She took Lucille's hands—they were thin and pale in Elena's strong brown ones. "Neither I nor anyone else will ever replace you. Not with Paul. Not with Jacques. And absolutely never with Henri, who totally adores you."

"I know that," Lucille agreed, her eyes filling. "I know. You're a good friend, Luz."

"Besides," Elena added, laughing a little, "Claude did all the flirting. He's a big sweetheart, and no one can resist him."

* * *

><p>One cold November afternoon Elena went to the stable to check on her black mare, Francine, who had been kicked in the leg the day before. Elena found Jacques with a broom in his hand, staring at the floor he was not sweeping. When their eyes met she could see the pain right down to his boots.<p>

"I … may I …"

Elena sighed internally. She really didn't want to hear this. After she'd lost her own family, she hadn't wanted to get entangled with another suffering family so soon, especially a boy about to lose his mother. She'd just wanted to help with the horses and stay out of the messy emotional stuff. But that was no longer possible; she cared about this French family. So she leaned against the wall and said, "Tell me, Jacques."

His words flooded out. "I want to tell Maman that I love her. I mean, I do tell her I love her, but I want to tell her that I'll miss her. I want to tell her… Luz, how am I going to live without her? I need her. But I can't say that because I don't want to hurt her. She still talks about getting better, but… Papa says the doctors…" The boy started shaking his head, took a deep breath, and stopped.

Jacques had good instincts. His mother wasn't ready to start saying goodbye, and having her son break down would not help her. But a son did need his mother. He also needed his father. Unfortunately, Henri was being the strong silent type, so Jacques wasn't talking to him, either.

Elena put an arm around his shoulders and squeezed, not quite the hug she would have given Marcellino, but a hug from a mother to a son nevertheless. "Why don't you tell your father?" she asked him.

"To tell Maman for me?"

"I think, when the time is right, you should tell her yourself. But your father is probably wondering the same thing you are. You two should talk about how you feel."

"You mean we could share the pain?"

Elena nodded. The pain of watching his mother die was eating Jacques alive. As for Henri…

"I think Papa is hurting more than me," Jacques said next.

Elena didn't nod even though she was thinking, "Right again, boy." Losing a beloved spouse was the worst. "You can comfort each other," Elena said. "He needs you, too."

Jacques nodded. Then, impulsive as all teens, he handed the broom to Elena and abandoned his chores to run out toward the corrals. Elena took over the sweeping. Looking out the back door of the stable, she saw Jacques approach Henri, who was sitting on top of a fence, watching his horses and brooding, which he'd been doing more of lately. Jacques spoke briefly; Henri swung his legs around and leaped down. The two hugged fiercely then slowly sank into the ground, openly weeping.

That night Elena cried herself to sleep in Duncan's arms.

* * *

><p>The next day Jacques seemed better, and he and Henri worked side by side on chores. As the weather turned colder and winter came on, the boy Jacques grew taller, and Mignone grew into her promise of speed. Her training went well, and every so often Henri would bring out another bottle of wine and they would toast her again.<p>

Lucille hung on through Christmas and into the spring, surprising the doctors. "I'm going to see Mignone race," she declared. "It's only half a year away." Elena and Henri were working hard to make that race a win.

Easter came early that year, with patches of snow still on the ground, but it quickly grew warm, and the lavender began putting out buds.

"I almost wish Jacques weren't going to school," Lucille said to Elena after lunch. "It was so good to have him here over the spring holiday. Now that he's in school, it's so quiet. So quiet," she repeated in a whisper then turned to Elena. "I love Jacques so much I want him with me every minute. I just don't know what to say to him," Lucille confessed. "What do you think, Luz?"

Elena realized she had become somewhat of a confidante for the Oiseaux family, someone they could trust and talk to but who wasn't actually a part of the family tragedy. So be it. She took a deep breath then said, "Tell him the house is too quiet, that you love him so much you want him with you every minute, but you don't know what to say to him," Elena suggested. "Be honest, Lucille."

"He's strong enough, isn't he? I'm the weak one."

Elena shook her head slowly. "He's not facing what you're facing."

"If my faith is true then I'm facing _notre Seigneur_. And that can't be so bad. I'm starting to look forward to it."

The pain from the cancer must be terrible in spite of the drugs, Elena thought, but this was also a good thing. Lucille Oiseaux was accepting death at last, and Jesus' love and comfort were at the end of the road.

Lucille stared off into space then added, "But my two loves… I think it's worse for them."

Elena had been in their shoes, not in hers, but she believed it was worse for them.

"A boy needs his maman," Lucille stated.

Yes he does, Elena thought. Marcellino was not a boy; he was a full-grown man. But it wasn't right, the way he'd lost his parents and grandmother. He needed her. She was here. Why not—?

"…ever had children?" Lucille was asking.

"No," Elena lied.

"You and Duncan should. You should get married and have many babies. They would be beautiful children, and you would make a great maman," the Frenchwoman opined.

Elena had been a good mamma. She remembered Marcellino saying "Mamma" as his very first word, and the way he had looked up at her and reached up to hold her hand. But lately she hadn't being a good mamma. That was going to change.

"I should get back," Elena said, walking to the door. At the threshold she said, "Talk to him."

Lucille nodded. "I will," she agreed.

And they obviously did, because after that Jacques spent more time in the house and less with the horses, and his father did not seem to mind one bit. In fact, Henri, too, started spending more time with his family, leaving more work for Elena and the other hired help, and Elena did not mind one bit.

* * *

><p>"I'm going to Rome," Elena announced a week later, as she and Duncan ate breakfast outside and listened to the birds on a warm spring morning.<p>

Duncan nodded. "To visit Lorenzo's grave on his birthday."

"Yes. I want to catch him up on what I've been doing," she said, smiling. "But also to see Marcellino."

This time Duncan shook his head. "Elena—"

"He's my son."

"It's been two years. He's moved on with his life."

"Exactly," she agreed. "So it will be easier. We won't both be raw with grief."

Duncan started to speak, then took a deep breath. "I didn't tell my children, as you know. It's been hard for me, but I think it's best for them."

"Of course I want what's best for Marcellino," she said. "I'm his mother."

Duncan nodded slowly. "It's your decision, Elena." He stood and kissed her then picked up his plate and cup and went inside to get ready for work.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Continued in "Reaching Back" in which Elena goes to Rome<br>_**

* * *

><p><strong>Translations (French)<strong>

_Amies _– friends

_Chevaux _– horses

_Notre Seigneur _– our Lord


	10. Reaching Back

**14 April 2046, Rome, Italy**

* * *

><p>Early in the day on the fourteenth of April, Elena went to her husband's grave. No flowers from Marcellino yet. Once again, she stood in front of the crypt, remembering the good times with Lorenzo. She told him about the horse she was training and about how she had learned to climb walls. She told him of a family of ducks she had seen last week, and other little things in her life. She didn't mention Duncan; that was a separate part of her life. But this year she didn't cry.<p>

Then she walked to the gate of the cemetery and settled in to wait. It wasn't the best place or the best day to meet Marcellino, but she knew a stranger couldn't get an appointment to see him, and if he were out in town his guards would keep people away. Today, it was likely he would be alone. One day every month Marcellino went off by himself, to be alone, without even his bodyguards. He'd been doing it since he was fifteen years old. She was betting he would do it today.

It was nearly noon when a very familiar figure came walking toward the cemetery, a bunch of lilacs in his hand. He was alone, as she had hoped. She turned away, facing another crypt, to give him time to visit Lorenzo's grave and to give herself time, too. Marcellino walked on by.

Elena kept sneaking glances at him as he stood at the family crypt. He seemed thinner, though it was hard to tell under his coat. His hair was definitely longer. It suited him. She ached to rush over and hug him, but she forced herself to wait, just a bit more.

After a time, Marcellino bowed his head, taking those deep calming breaths of his, then walked briskly toward the gate. Elena stepped out onto the same path, and he slowed and asked, "_Mi scussi, posso auitarla?_"

He wanted to help her. How kind… and how unnerving. She'd come here today to see him, and suddenly she wasn't sure if she should talk to him. Maybe not. Probably not. Maybe Cassandra and Methos and Duncan had been right, and she was wrong. But Elena did want to talk to him, dammit! This was her son. She raised her head and looked into his eyes, saying, "Hello, Marcellino."

Marcellino stared at her, obviously surprised she knew his name. Elena knew she looked much different from what Marcellino would remember. She was still thin, dark from the hours spent outside with horses, with short black hair instead of a gray wig. Even her form-fitting black clothes and cape were different from the middle-aged style that Elena Duran-Ponti had worn that last decade or so. "It's me, Marcellino," she said, hoping he would recognize her voice. "Your Mamma."

"My mother's dead," he said bluntly and started to walk on.

Elena moved in front of him. "I am Elena Duran-Ponti," she declared. "Don't you recognize my voice? I'm your mamma. Lorenzo Ponti's wife. I came to wish him a happy birthday too."

Marcellino stared at her for a moment; then he shook his head, his lips tightening. Gently he said, "It's true you do resemble her when she was younger, but you are not Elena Ponti. You cannot be. She would have turned seventy this year, and as I said, she is dead. You need help, signora."

He thought she was mad, Elena realized. A stalker, trying to take over a dead woman's life. "I am Elena," she said again, trying to be calm. If she remained calm, she might be able to convince him, although what she really wanted to do was burst into tears. "Your favorite book as a child was an Italian translation of Dr. Seuss' _The Cat in the Hat_," she told him. "You had a cat, Romeo, and then another cat, Sofia. We had to stop you from feeding the barn cats. And you didn't like our dogs at all."

He sighed. "All the household staff knew that." Already he was walking away.

"When you were eight," she called after him, "you told your mother you were afraid of rabbits. She promised she would never tell another living soul."

He swung around to face her, his face quiet and set.

"And I never did," she said softly.

He swallowed thickly then demanded, "Who are you?"

"I'm your mamma," she said again. "And I can explain." But a graveyard was no place to speak of immortality. "Maybe we can go somewhere and talk? How about your favorite little bar, Giorgio's, the one with the tiramisu?" He was looking intrigued now instead of exasperated, and she gestured, not quite daring to touch him, and said, "Come. Where's your Spider? If you still have it."

His eyes narrowed, but he answered evenly, "I sold it. Last year." He studied her then abruptly said, "This way," and led her to a dark blue rental car, a good choice for a man hiding from paparazzi. He even opened the door for her.

Their fifteen-minute car trip was remarkably silent; this conversation was too important to carry on while one of them was driving and they couldn't even look in each other's faces, or really touch. Elena had been a touching person for centuries, and Marcellino had thrived under her affection. So far they hadn't touched at all.

She looked around her when they walked into the bar, and he waved his hand dismissively. "Don't worry, no paparazzi; I pay for my privacy here."

She didn't tell him she was looking around for an escape route, as she always did, being an experienced Immortal. Instead she decided to just answer his questions directly, one at a time. They sat facing each other in a private booth, still silent.

After the waiter took their drink order, Marcellino said, "I have a thousand questions." She nodded, reminding herself to answer them one at a time, and he began, "How is this possible?"

"I am an Immortal. I've lived for centuries."

"How many?"

"More than four." He hissed in disbelief and she continued quickly, "I was born sometime around 1610 in Argentina. I have died several times," she whispered, leaning closer to him across the booth. "But after the first time, I have not aged," she continued. "I've lived many different lives, but my life with your father was wonderful, and you are the only son I've ever had, and I love you and I always will."

He hadn't asked her that, but it was important, the most important thing in the world. She reached out her hands to him across the table, and after a moment he took them in his own. Then she waited, not wanting to flood him with information.

"Are there other … Immortals?" he asked.

"Yes."

"My father? Was he…?"

She shook her head. "Your papa was not an Immortal." She knew that Marcellino had basically worshipped his papa and wondered if Marcellino would have preferred that she had died rather than Lorenzo. Then she put that thought aside and added, "Neither are you. Only me, and some others."

"How many?"

"I don't know," she told him. "I've met dozens; I've heard of hundreds."

"You said you've died several times. How can you die, and yet be here?"

She shrugged. "I don't know how it happens. If I'm hurt, I heal. If I die, I heal until I'm alive again."

There was a long silence. "This is so … bizarre," he said finally. "But it does explain an argument I heard when I was a boy. I thought Papa was just making a joke, when he said that you were immortal, and yet were acting like a child. And you and Papa must have known I'd heard something, because afterwards Papa told me you were talking about your immortal souls."

"I remember that argument," Elena said with a rueful smile. "Your father was right. I do sometimes act like a child."

"And you always look young?" he asked.

"I don't age," she confirmed.

"So when you 'got older,' you were pretending. It was makeup."

"And a wig," she admitted. "Yes, it's wonderful to never age, never get sick and die. I've had some fantastic times and great adventures. On the other hand, I've suffered all the losses…," she paused, her eyes filling with tears, then she caught her breath and went on, "… all the losses every person has, disappointments over and over again, loved ones dying, like your father. And then I'm left alone."

She brightened and leaned toward him, her hands tightening on his. "For a long time I've wanted to tell you, for years, and your papa said no, but now I especially want you to know. So you'd know that you hadn't lost all your family, that your mother was still here, and so I could still have some sort of relationship with you. You are not alone, and neither am I."

"No, neither are you," he repeated softly then pulled his hands away before saying, "Until _I_ get old and die."

She leaned back. "Yes."

He nodded then said slowly, "Or until you get a new family. Do you have a new husband? A new son? Or a daughter?"

Elena really didn't want to bring Duncan into this. "I am not married," she stated. "And you are my only son, Marcellino." Her eyes filled with tears. "My only child, _m'hijo_."

At that familiar endearment he closed his eyes and put his face in his hands. She reached over and touched his hair, but he pulled back and said, "But I am still alone, Mamma. I can't acknowledge you. We can only meet in dark rooms like this, or cemeteries." He looked off into the distance, looking into his own future. "I can never tell anyone…"

Well, he'd certainly put his finger one of the worst parts for him of knowing about her immortality. Smart kid. "Yes. It's a secret. You can't tell anyone, not even Angelina." He looked at her angrily, and she realized her mistake. Well, it couldn't be helped.

"Angelina is my wife!" he declared. "You're asking me to keep a secret from my wife."

Elena thought carefully what to say, remembering what Cassandra had told her about Sara's keeping that secret from her husband, and how badly that had turned out. But it didn't have to be like that, if they were careful. "It will not only not help Angelina to know," Elena said, "it will hurt her. And you. And me. There's no good reason to share this with her, and every reason not to. Besides," she added, "it's my business, not hers."

"It's not really my business either," he said, a little coldly.

"Right," she agreed. "Look, I know you need to think about this. And I know seeing me has been a shock. You need some time."

"A shock?" he repeated with a painful laugh. "Mamma, I feel like you've dropped a bomb into my life. I even feel weird calling you Mamma."

"I know." And that hurt. "Just please trust me."

"Trust you? Mamma, you've been lying to me my whole life. With your appearance, with your words … all these years. Lies."

_"Si," _she admitted sadly. He was right.

"Papa too," he said softly.

Elena could see on his face how much her own 'betrayal' had hurt him. But to have his beloved papa lie to him was too much for him. Maybe Cassandra was right. Maybe Elena should never have come. But she was here now, and had to make the best of it. She shook her head, breathed a silent prayer. "We had to—"

"Who else knew?" he broke in.

"Only your father and I knew, and right or wrong, we were trying to protect you. You have to believe that we did it for your own good, Marcellino," she tried to explain.

He shook his head. She could see the disbelief, the stress on his face. But Elena kept her own face friendly, soft. She let her love for him show through her eyes, bathed him in it. He was not reacting with happiness or excitement, as she had hoped, but he was still in shock. This could still be salvaged.

For a moment they were both quiet as the waiter placed a plate of olives and cheese and their drinks on the table, espresso for her and Campari for him. "We're not ready to order," Marcellino told the waiter, and the man bowed his head and backed off.

Elena took a sip of her coffee then sighed. "Are you saying you would rather not have known?" she asked, a little hurt by that too, but determined to be as honest as possible with him.

He shrugged. "I don't know. I just don't know what to think."

"Yes, I can see that. And it's not easy for me either."

"Where have you been?" he asked, the question bursting out of him. "These past two years?"

"Australia. And lately I've been living in France." He loved horses; she would tell him about Mignone. "There's a—"

"Why come here now?" he broke in. "After all this time? Why did you leave the plane?"

"I…," Elena began. "When the plane went down…" She drew a deep breath, trying to think of how to explain.

"What happened that day?" Marcellino demanded, leaning forward. "In the crash?"

This, she could answer. "The engines quit, we couldn't start them, we went down. Your father stayed calm throughout, and he landed the plane on the water. He was wonderful, but it was … a rough landing. He didn't survive it."

Marcello's jaw tightened but he said only, "And my grandmother?"

"She was mortally wounded in the crash and died soon after. We spoke of angels before she died. Your father and grandmother didn't drown," Elena reassured him.

He waved it away. "The autopsies told us that. What happened to you?"

"I was hurt, too, but I healed. When I saw that your father and grandmother were dead, I decided it was a good time for me to disappear."

"A good time?" he repeated incredulously then again, loud enough so that heads turned to look at them. "A _good_ time?"

"I couldn't have explained how I had survived the crash without a mark on me," Elena said reasonably. "And the 'aging' was getting harder to fake every year."

_"Mio Dio!"_ he exclaimed, shaking his head. "This is unbelievable."

All right, she had expected this. He was totally overwhelmed. "It is difficult to believe, to accept; but it's true, Marcellino," she said. "I am your loving mother, as I have always been. That will never change."

He was shaking his head, that familiar obstinate expression on his face. "I don't know who you are, or how you know what you know, or why you look like her, but you are not my mother."

She flinched, tears springing to her eyes as she reached out to him. "Marcellino, please—"

"_Don't _call me that," he practically snarled. "Only my family calls me that." He took a deep breath and continued, "My mamma called me that, and my mamma would _never_ have left me alone to bury my father and my grandmother—and my mother, too!—just because putting on some make up was too fucking hard. If she were alive, my mamma would never have disappeared for more than two years without a single word. If she were alive, my mamma would have moved heaven and earth to come to my wedding."

"I wanted to come," Elena said. "Oh, I wanted to, but—"

"_Chiudere_," he interrupted, silencing her. He leaned back, away from her, his eyes cold, his mouth tight. "Whoever you are," he said, slowly and deliberately, "you are _not_ my mother."

"I am," she whispered, swallowing hard. "Please, remember what you heard your father say," she pleaded. "I am centuries old. I am your mother." He wasn't listening to her anymore; she could tell. He had believed her; he knew it was her. He wasn't denying it. Instead he was rejecting her. She took a deep shuddering breath. All right. Another time; she could try another time. Right now this meeting had to end. There was really nothing else she could tell him now, and she herself was in too much pain. So was he. "Please, think on this. Pray on this. Then you tell me what you want to do."

She reached into her handbag for a notebook, where she wrote the name Luz Gutierrez and her telephone number then tore off the page. She offered it to him, but he didn't take it. She blinked back more tears and placed it on the table. "This is the name I'm using now. You can call me at this number anytime."

He said nothing. He wasn't even looking at her anymore. She put on her sweater then reached for her purse. "Call me if you need to, or want to," she said, standing up. "Anytime."

He closed his eyes briefly, his lips pressed tight, then looked up at her. He used to look up at her like that when he was little, when he had to reach up just to hold her hand.

Elena hesitated, aching to touch him, to hug him. Her hand lifted, reaching out to him, as she whispered, "_M'hijo_…"

"Leave," her son told her, in a voice as cold as ice. "Now."

Over the centuries, Elena had faced sword-wielding madmen, Inquisition bonfires, bloody conflicts, dying children, her own demise. She prided herself on her courage, on not retreating. But this was her son, and he didn't want her anymore. Eyes blinded by tears, Elena fled.

* * *

><p><strong>Caen<strong>**, France**

By the time Duncan got home from work, Elena had already started on her second bottle of wine. He sat down beside her on the couch and held out his arms. She crawled into the comfort of his embrace and wept. Duncan said nothing, just stroked her hair and held her tight.

"He didn't believe me at first," she said, her voice quivering. "But he finally realized it was me. He knew who I was, Duncan. He knew, but he still ordered me to leave." She wiped at her eyes with her fist, the way a child might. "And I didn't even get to tell him his father's last words," she almost wailed. The tears started again.

"I'm sorry," Duncan said softly.

"I expected him to be skeptical at first, but I convinced him," Elena repeated. "He even called me Mamma." Elena sat up straighter so she could look at Duncan. "But then he got angry. He said his mother would never have left him alone for more than two years. He just plain rejected me." She shook her head, getting angry herself. "I would have gone right away, if you and Cassandra and Connor hadn't told me not to go. I only waited because of what you said."

"Elena," Duncan said, "I never told you 'not to go.' Two years ago, or now. I just said I wouldn't have told my children. I didn't. But it's always been your decision."

"But you didn't think I should go," she pointed out and when Duncan didn't answer, she got angrier still. "You don't have to say, 'I told you so.' I can see it in your face."

His lips tightened, and he glanced at the empty bottle of wine on the floor and then at her wine glass, still half full. "You're hurting right now."

He meant she was drunk, Elena knew. He didn't have to say that, either.

"We'll talk later," he said, patting her hand, being kind and compassionate and sweet—and fucking annoying. He must have noticed the annoyance on her face, because he stood and announced, "I'm going running," and disappeared into the bedroom to change clothes.

She took her wine with her to the courtyard and didn't look up when he went out the door. She didn't look up when he got back, either, and she said "No, thank you" when he asked her if she wanted dinner. So he fixed himself a plate of leftovers and ate by himself.

He went to bed by himself, too. Elena sat in the darkness outside and opened a third bottle of wine.

"Damn the consequences," Elena muttered. That's what she'd said to Cassandra two years ago, when they'd talked about telling Marcellino the truth, and how hard it might be. Elena wiped the tears from her cheeks. "Damn, damn, damn, damn."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Next: Elena visits an old friend and an old enemy<br>**_


	11. Incalzando

**Incalzando**

* * *

><p><strong>16 April 2046, Caen France<strong>

* * *

><p>When Elena woke the next morning, the other side of the bed was empty. Duncan had already gone to work. She felt awful, both in body and in mind. Duncan had only been trying to help. She shouldn't have taken all her disappointment and anger out on him. And she certainly shouldn't have drunk so much wine.<p>

She'd make it up to him that night, she decided as she showered. An apology, dinner, a back rub … a front rub.

But when she checked her messages, Duncan had written at nine that morning to say he wouldn't be home that night, and maybe tomorrow night, too. Half his station had been called out to help a ferry in the Baltic Sea. Elena wrote him a warm note back, wishing him well. She signed it "with love."

She took a cup of coffee to the little courtyard and sat in a patch of spring sunshine, wondering if her son would ever understand, if she would ever see him again.

Her phone rang, and Elena cleared her throat before saying, "Hello, Cass."

"Elena," the other woman replied. "How are you?"

"Fine," Elena lied. She didn't want to talk about it. "Everything all right with you?"

"Yes. I've been in London all this last week for the royal wedding; Connor just arrived today."

"Avoiding the commotion, was he?" Elena asked dryly.

"Of course," Cassandra agreed with a smile, but then she grew serious. "I have something you should see. Can you meet us here?"

Elena hadn't been to London for decades. Back in 2007, she and Peter Shaw had agreed to stay out of each others' home towns. "If I see you in Rome in the next half-century or so," Elena had warned him, "I will decapitate you."

"If you come to London or Edinburgh in the next fifty years," Shaw had promised in return, "I will decapitate you."

That agreement still had nine years to run, but Elena didn't care. Lorenzo was dead, and if she and Shaw did happen to run into each other and he challenged her, Elena would be more than happy to oblige. In fact, maybe she'd go knock on his door. She hadn't taken a head in six years. She needed to truly get back into the game for real; a challenge to Shaw was the perfect opportunity to do so.

Besides, Duncan was gone, and the Oiseaux weren't expecting her back at the stables for a few days; Elena had planned to have time available to spend with her son. Moping around the house was no good. "The ferry leaves for Portsmouth at noon," Elena told Cassandra. "I'll be in London by dinnertime."

* * *

><p><strong>London<strong>

Seven hours later, Elena met Cassandra and Connor in a small sitting room at St. Anne's Academy, sister school to St. Hildegarde's. Elena and Cassandra exchanged warm hugs and greetings, while Connor stood and gave Elena a silent, welcoming nod.

"You look wonderful, Elena!" Cassandra said, standing back a bit to see. "Shoulder-length hair frames your face so well!"

"I have to keep it in a ponytail so the horses don't nibble at it," Elena said, laughing. "And yours is longer than ever, I see. And still gorgeous." But Cassandra hadn't asked her here to discuss hair styles._ "?Que paso?"_ Elena asked, feeling a bit of foreboding.

Cassandra locked the door then sat down on the burgundy love seat against the wall. "Claudia Jardine lost her head on Friday."

"Maestro Jardine?" Elena shook her head sadly as she took one of the comfortable chairs. "I was listening to one of her recordings just the other day."

"Lasted longer than I thought she would," Connor said, taking his seat again, across from Elena.

"How old was she? Seventy?" Elena asked, trying to remember when she had first heard that magnificent performance with the Boston Pops, and the brilliant teen who had amazed the crowd. 1979? Or 1975? Arthur Fiedler had still been alive.

"Claudia was almost seventy-seven," Cassandra answered. "She'd been an Immortal fifty years."

"And never once picked up a sword," Connor said.

"When I went to her concert in London in 1998, three years after she had become an Immortal," Elena said, "Duncan told me that Claudia said she needed to fear death to create joy. Thinking she was invulnerable interfered with her music."

"I'll bet beheading interferes with her music, too," Connor observed dryly.

"And having a sword certainly doesn't take away the fear that you'll be killed," Elena added. "Do we know who killed her?"

"An Englishman, whom Connor says you know," Cassandra said. "Peter Shaw."

Elena shot to her feet. "!_Ese maldito_! I hate that man! He beat Lorenzo mercilessly years ago for a gambling debt, and I'm pretty sure he enjoyed it," she said, pacing. "Remember him, Connor?"

Connor tilted his head to one side, his eyes narrowed. "I remember you coming to my house—and talking to my wife and children—when you were hunting him."

"Yes, and you didn't much like it. You threatened to take my head if I ever came near your family again." She smiled at him happily. "Notice I didn't do it again."

"I noticed," Connor said simply.

"I remember Shaw very clearly. He was disgusting but somehow thought he was sexy. And he was balding and had terrible teeth then. Disgusting!" she repeated as she sat down again. "How did you find out about Claudia?" Elena asked Cassandra.

"I've known Claudia's executive assistant, Zoelle, for years." Cassandra answered. "She's a graduate of the Phinyx music school. She called me on Saturday, concerned about Claudia, then came here and gave me a video."

"Of the beheading?" Connor asked in surprise.

"Not exactly. Claudia had a recording system installed a few months ago to help her critique her playing," Cassandra explained. "The cameras are fixed and show only the piano keys and the pedals. The acoustics, however, are excellent. "

"Let's see it," Elena said, and she turned the chairs to face the wall screen while Connor went to the liquor cabinet in the corner and brought back three glasses of Scotch, and Cassandra turned on the display screen. Elena nodded her thanks as Connor gave her the drink but put it down on the small table next to her chair, untouched. She'd done enough drinking the night before.

Cassandra started the show. The display on the screen was split: the top three-quarters was a view from above, showing Claudia's hands and all eighty-eight keys, while the bottom quarter focused on Claudia's feet on the piano pedals. In the bottom right corner was a clock display: 13 April 2046 | 18:42:05.4.

Elena recognized the music as the end of the third movement of Beethoven's _Moonlight Sonata, _the measure with the grace notes that had always reminded Elena of a falling leaf. Or each crystal clear note falling like a raindrop into a pond's still surface. The beauty was breathtaking, and the raw talent needed to recreate Beethoven's art so rare, and so valuable… Claudia Jardine could have continued recreating such beauty for decades, centuries. But Shaw… dammit! He totally had to die.

Claudia's fingers both commanded and caressed the keys, moving with impeccable precision and dazzling speed, her fingers sometimes a blur, then culminated in the final two crashing chords.

As the notes lingered in the air, her hands remained motionless just above the keys. Only when total silence reigned did she bring her feet to the floor and pull back her hands.

A person clapped deliberately five times. "Breathtaking, my dear. Breathtaking," came Shaw's voice. He sounded just the way Elena remembered: British, upper-class, smarmy. "I love the energy you bring to that movement," his voice continued. "The fury of the ascending scales, the suspense of the silences, the tremolo slowly building… You have brought passion to the abyss."

"At least he has an appreciation for good music," Elena muttered.

"Why, Peter," Claudia replied, her tone lightly teasing but still pleased, "I think you liked it."

"I adored it," Shaw said. "I'm pleased with the care you've taken with the dynamics. An improvement from last week. And the second movement is exquisite now. You've made it much more lyrical."

Claudia sounded delighted, as any appreciated artist would. "You really listened."

There was the sound of footsteps as Shaw moved closer. "I always listen. May I?" he asked.

Claudia answered, "Of course."

As he sat next to Claudia, Elena could hear clothes rustling and the bench squeaking. The foot camera showed his feet, in black dress shoes, appearing next to hers, and his hands on the keys. What a contrast, Elena thought, between his large, square-knuckled, mottled pink hands and her perfect light brown ones. Her calves and ankles were the same warm color above her pretty gold shoes, low-heeled to allow pedal access. Even without seeing their faces it was truly a beauty and the beast situation.

Elena had missed some of what Shaw was saying. ". . . at the end, in this measure…" He played some of what Claudia had played, but it wasn't even close. The notes were all correct, the timing precise, though slower. Elena had been studying the piano for ten years now but even without that training she could tell his playing was flat and mechanical, like a player piano.

Claudia obviously knew it too. "Your timing is good," she said, trying to encourage him. "Speed will come with practice, with time, and we certainly have a lot of that."

Elena could hear the amusement in her voice, but Elena herself was not amused. She knew how this show would end. Obviously Claudia didn't, yet.

"But the end must be played _incalzando,_" Claudia said. "With increasing passion." She showed him, her fingers perfect on the keys, once again hovering motionless in the final silence.

"He must be so envious!" Elena murmured, wanting to talk to Claudia, warn her, scream at her to get away, the way you screamed at a horror movie heroine who was unknowingly moving towards the monster. But it didn't do any good at the movies, and it wouldn't do any good now. Claudia was already dead, and Elena got up and went to the window, glaring at the closed shades. She didn't want to see this anymore. But she could still hear it.

"Yes," Shaw agreed. "_Incalzando_."

Elena's eyes were drawn back to the screen, and she saw his hands close over Claudia's. Claudia started to pull away, but his fingers closed around hers, trapping her. Her hands stopped moving.

"I have been your ardent fan since you were fifteen, Claudia, and your protector for the last five years." Shaw's voice was oily with persuasion.

Elena was repulsed, but she had to see this through. She came back to sit.

His thumb started stroking Claudia's skin. "I hope to be much more."

Claudia stopped his thumb with her other hand. "Peter…," she began.

Shaw pulled back. "Surely this isn't a surprise," he said, although he sounded surprised that she would refuse him.

_!Cabron!_ Elena thought.

"I have to say, I thought you preferred boys," Claudia said, apparently thinking she could get on top of this situation with lightness and humor.

"Like your friend Walter Graham?" Shaw's response was not light; in fact, it was sharp. But then his voice became smooth again. "After he died, you were lucky to find me."

"I know," Claudia said, her tone placating, "and I'm grateful."

"And you will find I am quite flexible in matters of the boudoir." His fingers went around her wrists, not tightly but enough to give the impression of handcuffs, then back to stroking again.

Elena shuddered.

Claudia pulled her hands away then patted the back of his hand. "Peter, I'm flattered, but… I'm sorry. I must say no."

"That's what I said to him, too," Elena contributed, "but without the being flattered part. Or being sorry, either."

Connor snorted.

The silence onscreen was absolute and lasted almost a full minute while his hands went motionless. Finally he asked, "You're sure, my dear?"

"Yes."

Shaw squeezed her hands then let go. "Pity."

"_Ay, Dios mio_," Elena muttered.

"I'm sorry," Claudia said again.

Shaw's hands and feet disappeared from the screen as he stood. "So am I." The sound of his footsteps receded.

Elena thought she heard Claudia sigh with relief. Then the maestro started to play a few slow notes from the beginning of the first movement, romantic and sad. At this point there was the sound of approaching footsteps. She stopped playing abruptly. "Peter?" Then her hands disappeared from screen and her feet moved swiftly to the side. "Peter, no…"

Shaw sounded confident and not in the least bit regretful. "Surely this isn't a surprise," he repeated.

They could all hear the sound of her footsteps running away, his unhurried footsteps following, mechanical and precise. Then there was a scream and a distant thud.

A dreadful silence.

Elena had never seen the effects of a quickening reflected on a polished surface; she usually was part of the quickening rather than an observer. She felt like a voyeur, listening to the shattering bolts, squinting her eyes at the brightly flickering lights on the black and white keys, knowing what it meant, that someone had died; no, that someone, Claudia Jardine, had been killed, and her life essence was pouring into her killer. What fucking vampires we all are! Elena thought, not for the first time. For a moment the screen went completely white; then she thought she could make out ghostly blue shadows glowing in the black mirror polish of the antique Steinway.

Another silence, even more dreadful. Elena let out the breath she'd been holding. It was over. _"Que Dios la guarde, Claudia Jardine,"_ she prayed.

But then a man's footsteps came near, quickly, eagerly. The piano bench squeaked under his weight as his hands and feet appeared on the video screen. The hands paused above the keys, trembling, hesitant, then descended and released a torrent of sound.

No. It wasn't over.

"Son of a bitch," Connor breathed.

Because the music was perfect. Beautiful. Peter Shaw had taken Claudia's head, absorbing all her knowledge and power, and now he could play. His laughter floated above the music, _incalzando _with unholy glee.

Elena had been studying the piano for decades. She, too, would have loved to play like Claudia Jardine. But what Shaw didn't understand is that people were the real beauty, the real truth. People had to come first; Claudia's life was more important than her art. But not to him. Elena was now more convinced than ever that Shaw, who didn't value innocent life, must forfeit his, if only to keep him from decimating the entire London Philharmonic.

Cassandra abruptly turned off the recording, and welcome silence filled the room. Elena shook her head, her eyes closed. She felt physically sick, not by the Quickening or the death—she'd been a part of too many of those herself—but by the total waste of a beautiful, innocent life at the hands of Vampire Shaw. Elena looked longingly at her glass of Scotch, licking her lips, but refused to pick it up, although she noticed Connor taking slow sips from his.

"So," Elena said thickly, "did Shaw kill Claudia because she wouldn't fuck him, or because he wanted to play the piano better?"

"I think he planned to kill her from the very beginning," Cassandra answered. "Whether she slept with him or not. Once she said no, he had no other use for her and no reason to wait."

_"!Que barbaridad!"_ Elena exclaimed.

"Have the police seen this?" Connor asked.

"Yes, Zoelle took it to them Saturday morning," Cassandra answered. "It was waiting in her mailbox as usual; she edits the videos. After Zoelle saw it and then couldn't reach Claudia, she became concerned and went to the police. However, when the police visited Mr. Shaw at his estate south of Edinburgh, he said that he had hoped to convince Claudia of his honorable intentions, and so had come back with an engagement ring. She was upset and ran from the room; then she slipped and fell in the hall. That explained the scream and the thud. She also cut herself slightly, which explained any traces of blood."

"How did he explain the Quickening?" Elena demanded.

"An unfortunate accident with an electrical transformer in his very old house. The power company was coming by to look at it soon." Cassandra looked at the display in her phone and shared what was written there. "Mr. Shaw said that right after the transformer blew, Claudia went upstairs to her room. He played the piano for a while to calm down—"

"What about that 'bwa, ha ha' laughter? " Elena asked. "Weren't they suspicious of that? He reminded me of the movie _The Phantom of the Opera_, with him as Lon Chaney, the monster!"

"Suspicious or not, it's not enough for an arrest," Cassandra said. "Shaw said he went to Claudia's suite, where they had a good conversation and agreed to stay friends. Then he went to a party at a neighbor's house to celebrate Princess Elizabeth's wedding, where he stayed until two. The next morning, he found a note from Claudia, saying she thought it best to leave. He has no idea where she might be."

"Smooth bastard," Connor muttered.

"The police searched his house but found nothing suspicious, save some scorch marks in the hall, obviously electrical. Claudia has been known to be impulsive; she is a musician, after all. Her car and her clothes and books and music were gone. The police thanked Mr. Shaw for his time and apologized for bothering him. They did take Claudia's note with them, and told Claudia's assistant they would investigate further if Claudia didn't surface in a few days." Cassandra pushed her reader away. "Zoelle was afraid to go back to her flat. She's staying here at St. Anne's."

"Why did she contact you?" Elena asked.

"When she took the job with Claudia, I told her I had concerns, and that I would like to know if anything happened." Cassandra sighed. "I had met Claudia three years ago at a concert in Paris, and after she described her life with Shaw, I told her I thought she should leave him."

"Was he abusing her?" Connor asked.

"Not physically or emotionally, but he was starting to control her life. Choosing her clothes, screening her calls, inviting her to live with him for safety… all with the most helpful of intentions, of course." She shook her head, saying, "That's how it begins. He was keeping her isolated and dependent upon him in a luxurious cocoon."

Cassandra finished her drink then held the glass in her hands. Her long, elegant fingers were motionless on the clear glass. "Claudia told me she was aware of it, and that she could handle it—and him. She thought she was the one in control."

"She was wrong. And he's a disgusting pig, _un hijo de mala madre_," Elena swore. "Dangerous, too."

"Yes," Cassandra agreed. "He needs to die. And soon. If he can absorb a skill that completely through a Quickening, he will become enormously—dangerously—powerful."

Elena nodded and couldn't quite control a shudder at the thought of a man like Shaw with Connor's or Duncan's—or Connor _and _Duncan's—fighting skills, or—even worse—the power of the Voice.

"And that, Elena, is why Connor suggested that I call you," Cassandra said.

"Did he?" Elena asked Cassandra, but Elena was looking at Connor, and he lifted his glass to her in silent toast.

"I was thinking of calling Duncan, as Claudia had been his protégé," Cassandra explained, "but Connor told me you wanted Shaw's head."

"I did. I do," Elena said. She'd wanted to behead bastard forty years ago for what he'd done to Lorenzo, she'd been thinking of paying him a visit anyway, and, now, after seeing what he'd done to Claudia…

"Connor also said you can take Shaw," Cassandra was saying.

"Did you?" Elena said, now asking Connor directly.

"You're a warrior," Connor said simply. "You were raised as one."

"Yes," Elena agreed, complimented almost to tears. She was crying too much these days. Connor, also a warrior, understood the need for battle, the fierce satisfaction it could bring. He had told her she could do it, re-enter the Game, two years ago. He still believed in her, and she was gratified. "My father, Don Alvaro, was all about honor and duty," Elena explained, "and that's how he raised me, to fight. He loved fighting," she said, almost smiling in remembrance of him. "When I became an Immortal, he became my teacher as well as my father, and I learned the lessons again. He had the same Immortal teacher you did," she said to Connor, finally picking up her drink so she could toast him, too, "and it's clear from his students that Ramirez taught very well."

Connor half-smiled and half-bowed in response to her compliment, and then they drank to each other, one warrior to another.

She'd been a warrior when she'd met Shaw nearly four decades before, but then she had chosen life and walked away to raise a child with her husband, rather than killing Shaw. Now she was choosing differently. Lorenzo would not have liked it, but he was gone, and even when he had disagreed, the Game had never been his war anyway. It was hers.

Elena knew she wouldn't much like the Englishman's Quickening inside her, but that was part of being an Immortal, too. She was alive—Shaw was the dead man, as he deserved to be. "So," Elena said, setting down her drink and rubbing her hands together, "how soon can I kill Peter Shaw?"

"Tomorrow afternoon?" Cassandra suggested. "He's at his country home south of Edinburgh." She smiled at Elena. "Would you like company?"

Elena certainly didn't need a babysitter or backup, or any help from the Voice, but she and Cassandra hadn't seen each other in over two years. It would be good to talk. Unless Cassandra meant… Elena glanced at Connor.

"I have plans," he said, with a shake of his head.

Elena thought, if Connor was unhappy about the ladies going off alone on their quest he wasn't showing it. And he'd been supportive of Elena all along, this time. And from now on, she hoped.

"I can help you get rid of the body," Cassandra offered.

"Thanks," Elena said cheerfully. "Although I'd just as soon leave Shaw for carrion. " She smiled at her old friend. "I'd love for you to come."

Connor was already at the door, his hand on the knob, waiting for them. As Elena rose from her chair, she added, "One more thing, Connor." She waited until he looked at her directly. "If Shaw decapitates me, Duncan will go after him."

Connor lifted an eyebrow at her but waited silently.

"Warn him then about Shaw's left hand," she said. Shaw was right-handed… now.

Connor glanced down at Elena's left hand, her sword hand. "I know. Thanks."

* * *

><p>Early the next morning, Elena waited impatiently in the lobby for Cassandra to appear. She finally showed up, eyes bright and cheeks flushed. No wonder Cassandra hadn't wanted to take the sleeper train to Edinburgh. "Good morning?" Elena asked, grinning.<p>

Cassandra grinned back. "Very good."

As they walked the two blocks from St. Anne's Academy to the station, Elena said, "I didn't mean to interrupt your time with Connor here in London."

"Oh, it's fine," Cassandra said. "He's going to be busy with the metallurgy convention people for the next three days, and he and I see each other all the time in Austria. A little break is good for us."

Elena wasn't sure her "little break" from Duncan was good for them. The last thing she'd said to him was "No." She'd stayed up late last night, writing him of her love, thanking him for everything he'd done and apologizing for anything she'd done, explaining why she had left when she did, apologizing for her behavior to him…. then she scrubbed the apologies and the explanations and kept her thanks, their love, and their mutual decades-long devotion.

She'd written a letter to Marcellino, too. Three days ago, she'd lied to him when she told him she couldn't die. If she did die, he deserved to know, although she did not supply any details. "I have some letters for people," she told Cassandra. "Would you—"

"Of course," Cassandra said instantly.

"I'll give them to you on the train," Elena said as they reached the stairs to the underground. She shouldered her duffel bag and tried to shield it from the crowd of people heading for the tube.

After they were seated on the express train to Scotland, Elena handed Cassandra the letters, and Cassandra said quietly, "I have some files on Peter Shaw, if you're interested."

"Watcher files?" Leave it to Cassandra to get a hold of those files.

"Just one: a list of his kills. The other files are from the 1990s; Connor hired a detective agency when he and Shaw were both living in Edinburgh."

"Connor already told me quite a bit about Shaw, back in 2007," Elena said. "Anything new?"

"Probably not."

Elena shrugged. She already knew she was going to kill Shaw. Why learn what his hobbies were? But she did like to know a few things. "How many are on that Watcher list?"

"Twenty-seven. The list was last updated in 2009, a few years before Watcher HQ was destroyed, so there could be more."

Claudia made the total twenty-eight. "Anyone I know?"

"I don't know who you know," Cassandra replied. "Twenty-one of them were considered good fighters; the other six were like Claudia."

Elena had killed two "like Claudia": young, inexperienced Immortals who had nevertheless come after her boldly, to her house. Not quite the same. But Elena had also killed a few mortals who had been unarmed and begging for their lives. She took a deep breath and shook it off. This was not about what she'd done, but about what Shaw had done and could do. Immortals judged each other, passed sentence then executed it. It was the nature of the Game, and she would not be burdened with guilt over a fair challenge. He still deserved to die. And if _she_ deserved to die, which she probably did, it would be up to another Immortal to do something about it. Ultimately, it would be up to God to judge her. "Finally!" she said as the train began to move.

"And how's Duncan?" Cassandra asked as the train started to pick up speed.

"Fine," Elena said, and that was true. She was the one who had messed up. She still didn't want to talk about that with Cassandra, because it would mean talking about Marcellino, too. So Elena launched into a story of how Duncan had rescued people last month and then a story about how they were training the racehorse, and Cassandra talked about a concert she was planning, and that kept them busy until breakfast arrived.

Cassandra ate all of hers; Elena had café au lait and one scrambled egg. "Nervous?" Cassandra asked.

Elena shook her head, even though it was hard to sit still. "I'm more … eager than nervous. Like a racehorse before the bell. But food slows me down, so I only eat a little protein, for strength. I need to stay light on my feet."

"Oh, I've been meaning to ask," Cassandra said. "Can you recommend a teacher of _parcours_? I'd like to start a class at St. Hildegarde's. I think the girls would have fun on those old castle walls."

"Would they ever!" Elena exclaimed. "Well, for those tall outside walls and cliffs you'd need a rock climbing instructor and pitons. But inside, the walkways, staircases, statues – oh, the courtyards and those wonderful dormers and windows!" Elena exclaimed happily, seeing herself there, running up walls, balancing, jumping. "I'll give you Lucien's number," she said, pulling out her phone. "I think he would love a new challenge. He hates his day job-"

"Wait," Cassandra said, holding up her hand. "How old is he?"

"Twenty-three?" Elena guessed.

"Is he married? Or gay?"

"Married."

"Good. The headmistress won't hire young, single men. Too much temptation—on both sides."

Elena understood that. "His wife is not a _traceur_. She loves to play in the dirt." When Cassandra raised her eyebrows in confusion, Elena added, "Grow things."

"Even better. We always need people in the gardens and the greenhouses."

"Good. Lucien could set up a training area in a corner of the dojo—with sensei's permission, of course—before he takes the girls to town. You should know," Elena warned, "some towns don't take kindly to _parcours_."

"Our mayor is intrigued. And so," Cassandra added with a smile, "is our sensei."

Elena smiled back. She shared Lucien's contact information with Cassandra and sent him a message to let him know. And the next time Connor "invited" Elena go to running, she'd suggest a different kind of workout.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Next: Elena confronts Shaw<strong>_

* * *

><p><strong>Translations (Spanish):<strong>

_Que paso _– what happened

_Ese maldito _– that damned man

_Cabron _– asshole

_Que barbaridad _– unbelievable

_Hijo de mala madre _– son of a bitch


	12. Del Capa al Coda

**Scotland**

* * *

><p>The train arrived in Edinburgh in early afternoon. Cassandra borrowed a car from a Phinyx branch office, and they drove south toward the village near Shaw's estate. "First, I want to check out that abandoned barn I saw online last night," Elena said. "I don't want Shaw choosing the ground, or setting traps."<p>

"Connor said Shaw had 'too much bloody English pride' to cheat at the Game."

"Shaw's still a 'bloody Englishman,' and I don't trust him at all." Elena turned on her phone for directions, and Cassandra drove. When they got to the street address, they still needed the phone, because young trees had sprouted in the abandoned farm fields, and the place was nearly a kilometer from the road.

The barn was an old two-story building made of light-colored stone on the bottom story and wood on the top story. They walked in and scared off a few small animals; an owl hooted angrily and flew out. Inside were several horse stalls in various states of disrepair on either side of the center aisle, with a hay loft above the stalls; the center area was clear all the way up to the age-and-weather-damaged roof. The stone walls were still sturdy, and it looked like no one had been there for years. The roof, even though it had a few small holes, would hide the fight from satellites. "Perfect," Elena said.

She looked out a window at the overcast sky, where the sun was a bright spot behind clouds. "At least it's not raining. And it's not too cold." Chilly, but not frigid. She'd still be wearing her custom-made leather gloves—with no fingers. Otherwise she just couldn't feel her hilt well enough.

Cassandra was also looking at the sky. "Five hours until sunset. I should start digging now."

"It's a lot of work," Elena said, feeling a bit guilty.

"I need the exercise," Cassandra said with a shrug. "And you can buy me dinner tonight."

"Deal," Elena agreed.

"Call me as soon as you and Shaw set a time, so I can get clear before either of you arrives," Cassandra said next.

"Right," Elena agreed.

Cassandra did not smile or say farewell, but reached out with two fingers and gently touched Elena's forehead, nose, and mouth. "Be strong," Cassandra wished for her then picked up her bag of tools and walked away. Elena could still feel the touch of those fingers, bright and warm and somehow comforting.

Elena walked back to the car and drove to Shaw's estate. The three-story brick manor house was handsome, and the grounds were lovingly-kept. Spring flowers bloomed along the walkway and in pots on the worn stone stairs. He must be very proud of his "family heritage," as proud as she was of her Argentine _estancia._ A man came by with a dog on a leash, who barked at her furiously and protectively. That, too, was familiar. Well, so what. She was here, she was ready, and she was going to take Shaw's head. It was past time.

Elena adjusted her sword inside her cape as climbed to the front door. The door knocker was a British lion. Very patriotic and traditional, she thought, as she lifted it. After only one knock a very proper British butler quietly ushered her inside. Large paintings decorated the spacious entryway, and there was even a genuine suit of armor in the corner opposite the stairs. Five wooden doors led to other rooms, but all the doors were shut. And surprise, no scorch marks. The paint was fresh. Bastard! She took a few steps into the hall then sensed an Immortal and tensed up.

The butler opened the second door to her left then led her into a fancy parlor, where she waited alone for a few moments. The butler did not ask her name, which was good, because she wouldn't have given it. She intended to kill Shaw today, and she didn't want her name…

The butler offered her refreshments, and she murmured, "Thank you, no." She looked around the very tastefully arranged library, at the large oak desk on the Aubusson rug, the chairs near the fireplace (but sadly, no fire). No piano, either. Claudia's music room must be behind one of those five closed doors.

Finally, Peter Shaw arrived, whistling the Moonlight Sonata, perhaps having been summoned from the greenhouse and his beloved roses, or perhaps from his dog kennels. Perhaps from sodomizing one of his maids. His clothes gave no hint; he was neatly attired in country clothes: sensible trousers, a wool vest, a tweed jacket. His hands were clean, and his thinning brown hair was perfectly combed.

Shaw looked her over as he entered the room, his gaze roaming up and down her body in a way that made Elena want to scratch. "Elena Duran. What a surprise. I love the hair." He peered at her face. "And the new eye."

"Beautiful, isn't it?" she said. It had taken her brain almost six months to get used to binary vision again; six terrible months of bumping into furniture and feeling helpless, where she couldn't get her eyes to focus together and had had to hide in a convent for her 'health.' But now the eye worked as well as a real one.

Shaw finished his thorough inspection. "That will be all, Iverson," Shaw finally said, and the butler left the room then quietly shut the door.

"I'm here for your head," she said bluntly to Shaw.

"Goodness," Shaw said mildly. He walked over to a liquor cabinet. "Care for a drink, Elena?" he asked with irritating politeness, holding up a glass. She shook her head, and Shaw fixed himself a whisky and soda then came back and sat in the leather wingback chair. "Please," he said, motioning to the smaller chairs on either side of the cold fireplace, "make yourself comfortable."

Elena chose the chair to his left, furthest from his dominant right hand. Just in case. It wasn't comfortable, and it creaked under weight. An antique, no doubt; its silk covering was slippery beneath her legs. She sat on the edge, very erect.

"So," Shaw began. "Elena Duran, two years a widow, comes knocking on my door on a chilly spring day." He smiled with a slow licking of his lips. "I am so glad you have decided to take me up on my earlier offer of adventures in the boudoir."

Elena gritted her teeth in revulsion. "I've already told you why I'm here. I'm going to kill you."

"Oh, you meant _that _head," he said, as if surprised, then settled back in his chair. "You do realize that even if you weren't interested in my head, yours would be forfeit to me. Our agreement to avoid each others' homes still has nine years to go." He leaned his chin on his left hand. "Or did you assume our agreement became void when your husband died? If so, you really should have let me know that I was free to visit Rome."

"So you could beat up another young man who hadn't paid his debts?"

He set his drink down and asked curiously, "After all this time, are you still upset about that gambler fool of a husband of yours? I thought we had put that behind us, my dear, and frankly, I'm surprised to hear you still care, especially seeing as he shipped you off to Spain nearly twenty years ago."

Elena wasn't surprised Shaw knew that; it had been on the news. But she had never attacked an Immortal's family, or the memory of that family. What else could she expect from this abominable _Ingles?_

Elena decided to stay quiet, so as not to give anything anyway. A mistake could be deadly for her. Besides, she remembered, Shaw liked to talk. He could be the one to make a mistake today.

Shaw leaned forward, as if to impart a secret, and said, "Did you know, Elena, I was quite impressed with your ruthlessness and your resourcefulness, ditching your husband—and his sainted mother—at sea. Of course, your husband was past sixty. He probably hadn't been 'up' to the task for quite some time." Shaw asked with avid curiosity, "Was he?"

"You're disgusting," Elena said as coldly as she could manage. But she could feel the tears come. _!Carajo!_ Not now!

"Oh, have I pricked you, my dear?" Shaw said with mock sympathy. "Are you actually… heaven forfend… crying?"

She resisted the urge to jump to her feet and slap him. _!Controlate, Elena!_ "Yes," she said, pleased that her voice was still cold. "It's called an 'emotion,' Shaw. Love. Something a cold-hearted murderous villain like you wouldn't know anything about." She angrily rubbed the tears away. "Don't worry. My grieving will not affect my fighting. I will still behead you."

"So passionate," he murmured, his gaze lingering at her breasts before he looked into her eyes. "Does Duncan MacLeod satisfy you better than your darling Lorenzo ever could … Miss Luz Marina Gutierrez?"

Elena kept her face calm. So, Shaw had been tracking her, and he knew her new alias and where she lived. Or maybe he'd been tracking Duncan, and she'd come back into Shaw's sights again after her trip to Australia. It didn't matter. Lots of Immortals kept track of each other.

"Tell me," Shaw asked next, still showing off how much he knew about her, "does darling Marcellino know about your Immortal lover in Caen? Or does your 'son' even know you're still alive? Have you told him that you slice off people's heads?"

Disgusting, abominable _Ingles! _Elena was furious at Shaw for getting under her skin and noticing the reaction she hadn't been able to hide, for reminding her of her recent loss, and especially for mentioning her son.

She wanted to slap Shaw but said nothing. This was all an attempt to rattle her. It was the same ages-old pre-battle strategy of verbally undermining your opponent's confidence by causing him to lose control via fear, anger, hurt pride, sorrow, whatever worked. Elena had done it before, and so had every Immortal she knew. Elena breathed deeply and centered herself again. She would not give Shaw any further satisfaction.

Besides, if she did die today, Cassandra would deliver the letter to Marcellino, and he would have those last words from his mother, even if this bastard Shaw told her son the truth about how she had died. And, she thought with grim satisfaction, once Shaw was dead—and he would be dead today—he couldn't tell Marcellino anything and could never come near her son.

Shaw smiled at her as he leaned back in his chair, but his eyes were narrowed. "Why are you here now, Elena? Are you bored?"

She shook her head. "Claudia Jardine."

"Ah. The lovely Claudia." Shaw said her name as if it were ice cream on his tongue. His eyes were cold. "And just how did you hear about her?"

Elena gave a tiny shrug.

"I see I shall have to seek out the lovely Zoelle and teach her discretion," Shaw said to himself. He smiled at Elena again. "After I'm done with you, of course."

Yet another reason to kill him, Elena thought: protecting another defenseless young woman. Elena kept her silence once more, but it was hard. She wanted to scream at him. She shifted in her seat. "_!Controlate, Elena!" _her father had told her many, many times.

After a moment Shaw said, "Were you Claudia Jardine's teacher? Her lover? Mother, perhaps? Or just a fan?"

"I was her admirer. She had a great genius," Elena said.

"Yes, she did. Limited, of course, as all artists are. And weak, as all women are." Shaw set his drink down and steepled his finger tips together. "Do you know, Claudia was grateful to have a benefactor like me. Someone who would provide for her, applaud her, cater to her whims… and protect her." Shaw lifted his hand in a gracious wave. "Over the last four decades, I've taken the heads of eight Immortals who came hunting for her."

Elena was not impressed. "You were using her as bait," she accused. "And then you had the gall to accept her gratitude. Do you like playing at the lord of the manor?"

"I was her patron," Shaw said, his nostrils flaring. "And her protector. She owed me."

Elena saw her chance to rattle him. "Owed you what?" she demanded. "Her head? Or her body? I find you personally repugnant, Shaw, and so did Claudia, I'm sure. I know why she wouldn't even kiss you." She was rewarded by Shaw's hand starting to rise to his mouth before he stopped it. She went on, "You weren't Claudia's liege lord, protecting her from a sense of _noblesse oblige_. You just wanted her head for yourself, you selfish bastard." She leaned forward on the uncomfortable, creaking chair. "Tell me, Shaw, did you kill Claudia because she wouldn't sleep with you, or for her talent? Or did you take her head simply because you were bored?"

"I don't kill people over sex," Shaw said with withering scorn. But then he repeated, "She owed me. The talent… I didn't know it would transfer, not that way." He raised his face, his eyes glowing with rapturous joy. "That genius, that power, to create such music…" His smile was unholy with delight. "It's a gift."

Elena shook her head. Unbelievable, but true. Shaw had killed Claudia, carelessly destroyed another human being just in the hope that he could play the piano better. He had shown no mercy, and he would get none.

"Gifts are given," Elena said, "not taken. And you won't keep this one for long." She looked him over with disgust. "You take money to beat up untrained men. Today you made a widow cry. You betray and murder helpless women under your 'protection.' You're a bully and a coward, Shaw, and you have no honor."

His eyes narrowed in irritation, and she knew with a flash of glee that she had managed to get under his skin again. She stood, squaring her shoulders, her face grim and implacable. "I want your head," she told him again. "Do you accept the challenge or not?"

"You're serious," he said in wonder. He looked her over yet again, but now his evaluation wasn't sexual, it was professional. He rose to his full height and smoothed his jacket before saying, "You surprise me, Duran. I did not think you were a warrior."

Elena was surprised by Shaw, that he would give her a compliment like that. Unless it was a ploy? Connor had called Shaw a "smooth bastard."

"I accept your challenge, Elena Duran," Shaw said then actually bowed to her, all formal and … almost … polite.

Another ploy? It didn't matter. She nodded her head, very briefly. "Ready?" she said, getting impatient.

"I have a few details to take care of. Shall we meet tomorrow?"

She tilted her head, studying him. "You're not trying to drag this out, are you? Scared a little?" She could tell Shaw wasn't scared, but no harm in pushing.

He actually laughed aloud. "I find challenges invigorating, not frightening, especially a challenge of true skill between opponents."

So, Elena decided, _este hombre_ liked to fight, not just win. That kind of confidence didn't come from killing only obviously weaker opponents. Well, she knew that already. He had to die anyway. "You killed Claudia when she was unarmed," she pointed out.

He waved that away. "She wasn't a warrior. That wasn't a challenge."

When Connor had called her a warrior, she had been flattered. She didn't value Shaw's opinion at all. A truly honorable man, like Connor, would never have betrayed and killed Claudia Jardine. "Unlike Claudia," Elena told Shaw, "I am a challenge. You're vermin, Shaw."

"And you, Duran, are uncivilized. But even so, I think, not without honor on the battle field. This fight between us has been a long time coming; one might say it was inevitable. I am eager for this match, believe me. Shall we meet at dawn?" he proposed.

He was treating her differently, like a real opponent. Whatever. "We're both eager; how nice. Today, six o'clock," Elena countered. She wasn't spending any more time away from home than she had to. "I'll meet you at this abandoned stone barn." She pulled out a piece of paper from her pocket with the address and GPS coordinates on it then dropped it on the seat of the uncomfortable antique chair.

Shaw glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantel. "In one hour and forty-two minutes," Shaw agreed. As she went to the door, he called after her, "Duran." She stopped but did not turn, and he asked, "Shall I inform both MacLeod and Marcello of your death? Or just MacLeod?"

"I'll spare you the trouble," she assured him as she exited. Vermin, she thought. As soon as Elena got in her car, she called Cassandra. "Six o'clock," she said. "How's it going?"

"Better than I expected. Want to help?"

"Sure." Elena drove back, parked her car on the side of the road, and met Cassandra not too far from the barn, but hidden from sight behind a grove of trees. "You've been busy," Elena said, for the hole was already nearly three feet deep. A blue tarp hide the site from prying eyes above.

"This used to be a garden," Cassandra said, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. "The ground is easy to dig."

"How'd you find it?" Elena asked, picking up a shovel.

Cassandra pointed to a heap of stones not far away. "Chimney."

They dug together for half an hour. "My arms are starting to get tired," Elena declared and stopped. She needed to save her strength for the fight. Cassandra dug until about five-thirty then stacked the tools and put on a wide-brimmed hat. Elena handed her car key and phone to Cassandra.

"I'll see you soon," Cassandra said firmly then walked off between the birch trees, reaching out to touch them one by one until she disappeared, a witch in the woods.

Elena felt the need for solitude, and she didn't want Shaw to think she was waiting for him. She walked silently into the fields then into a small forested area, dim under thickening clouds. The ground was cold beneath her feet, and the air was still frigid. At least she'd warmed up with all that digging, and it would be marginally warmer inside the barn. Elena, a tropical creature, was dressed warmly in dark layers she could remove as needed and was wearing comfortable, well-worn boots. She'd also pulled up her hair, so Shaw couldn't grab it, and stuffed it under a knit cap.

The uneven ground made for some rough passage, and for some reason she was thinking of Duncan, how gracefully he'd be walking, remembering what a superb dancer he was. Fencing was a dance too, of course. A dance of death. A Totentanz. She was not a great dancer but she was good at this dance. Connor had agreed, and Cassandra had practically sent her here. If they were confident of her, so would she be. It was time to meet Shaw.

When Elena could just see the barn in a small clearing through the trees she sensed the dim thrum of an Immortal. She stopped and took a deep breath then said a prayer, unsure how much time Shaw would give her, if any. She wished Duncan were here, or even Cassandra—for a moment she felt very alone. But that, too, was the Game.

Elena took one more deep breath. Then she left the cover of the trees and strode confidently into the ruined barn, her backpack (with her sword) over her shoulder.

Shaw was leaning with one shoulder against a stall wall and humming softly. Damn if it wasn't Beethoven again, the Moonlight Sonata Claudia had been playing when Shaw beheaded her! Elena thought. Was he remembering Claudia? Feeling guilty? She doubted it would make a difference in the fight. He was dressed all in gray under a hand-woven dark blue coat, as neat as always. His beautiful English broadsword, slightly longer and heavier than her German broadsword, lay balanced atop an old feeding trough.

He snapped his pocket watch shut and straightened as she came in. "You're on time,' he said, sounding surprised.

"Do you expect me to be late because I'm a woman or because I'm Latin?"

"Both."

"I'm never late for my opponents' funerals," she said.

That almost got a smile out of him. He nodded then placed his watch in his coat pocket and hung the garment and a grey woolen scarf over a stall wall in the far corner of the barn. Elena took the opposite corner and hung up her cape and her backpack. Behind her, the lowering sun glowed brightly right into through the barn door opening.

Elena drew her sword then kissed the hilt, murmuring, _"!Ayudame, Dios mio!"_ Then she struck the point against the dirt floor_. "!Desperta, ferro!"_ she clearly called out.

Shaw shook his head again. "Superstitious nonsense. Shall we begin?"

Elena nodded, and Shaw assumed the classic fencing stance, saluted with his sword, then lowered it and said, "_En garde_." Then he rushed her.

Within three minutes Elena knew she would not be able to outfence Peter Shaw. He was equally skilled, had as much endurance, and although she was marginally faster, he was stronger, brutally stronger, much stronger than he looked. Every few minutes he pounded on her then went back to regular fencing. It was disconcerting, screwing up her timing, her rhythm.

Sooner or later, she knew, he'd pummel right through her guard. For now, they were evenly matched and neither one had scored more than just a shallow cut. Then he made a mistake, a lowering of his blade, and she managed to jab the tip of her sword into his side, pricking him. First blood! Elena exulted.

But his fierce riposte forced her back, and she couldn't finish her stroke. She had to withdraw, and fast. Then he beat on her again, blow after blow, simply outmuscling her, and she barely stood her ground.

But he couldn't maintain that pace, and they separated, both breathing hard. To win, Elena knew, she would have to look for a worse mistake on his part and not ever close with him. Except he wasn't making any more mistakes. Well, nor was she.

Until Shaw rushed her again, striking at her with a savage blow that swept her sword arm away from her body, exposing her chest and totally numbing her wrist.

And Elena dropped her sword.

Shaw looked straight into her eyes, and smiled.

For half a heartbeat they looked at each other, silent and motionless, his eyes glittering with triumph and hers dull with despair, even as every instinct in her body screamed at her to reach for the sword on the ground to her left, to pick it up, to get her weapon back in her hand! She was faster, she could do it! She crouched then started to reach, just as his sword came down in a brutal arc with enough force to slice through bone and cut off her hand.

Game over.

Except Elena's hand wasn't there. That reach had been a feint. Instead she had pistoned her legs and leaped to her right, away from her sword, vaulting over a stall wall as she called mockingly, "Too slow, Shaw!"

He wasn't all that slow; as she had leaped his sword had cut into the heel of her left boot. After she landed, she could hear him growling with rage. Not only had he missed what should have been a sure victory, the wall was too high for him to reach her. If she was lucky, Shaw's anger would cause him to barrel through the stall's open doorway soon, knowing she was disarmed, probably hoping to be quick enough to catch her sprawled on the ground.

But Elena had practiced sticking her landings too many times, and instead, he was barely in time to see her take two running steps, hit the unstable wall again, and come out the way she had come in – between the ceiling and the top edge of the stall wall.

Except this time she didn't go down, but up. She grabbed the edge of the loft floor, swung her legs through the opening and rolled up onto the loft above the stall, then moved to place herself above the stall doorway as she pivoted one hundred eighty degrees. She was now crouched and facing the outer barn wall, her back to the inside of the barn. She had pulled a muscle in her left calf but had no time to wait for the muscle to relax. She was just grateful that the rickety wall had held her weight one more time.

Shaw was still in the stall. He must know that Elena now had the advantage of higher ground and would surely jump on him when he came out. She could hear him breathing hard, hesitating at the doorway – which was what Elena was hoping for.

But he might be too ready for her; she needed just one moment's distraction. Near her on the loft floor, blessedly, were several broken, discarded items. Knowing any noise would force Shaw's attention in that direction, she picked up an old curry brush. As she threw it hard against the outer stable wall, above and behind him, she also jumped backwards off the loft, launching herself blindly into thin air. On the way down, she grabbed the edge of the loft floor again. She swung her hips forward, straightening her curled legs and kicking with all her weight to let her momentum carry her through the stall doorway.

Shaw was already turning back to face her, too damn quick, and his sword slashed up, this time cutting through her boot and into her left ankle. Her right boot, however, crunched into the softness on the side of his head, and he took a few stumbling steps backward into the stall then fell heavily, striking his head on the stone wall.

Elena swung back and let go of the loft edge, landing softly on her good foot, almost losing her balance. She ran-limped to her nearby sword, thanking God Shaw had been in so much of a hurry to kill her that he hadn't tossed her blade further away. She scooped it up and rushed back to the stall, but by this time Shaw was already standing. However, he was leaning against the stone wall, shaking his head to try to clear it, holding his sword double-handed in front of him in a classic defensive stance. Behind him on the pale stone, about knee-high, was a new glossy smear of blood.

Elena smiled. _!Ahora si, cabron! _I have you! She closed in swiftly, for she wasn't some swashbuckling hero in a movie, allowing her deadly opponent a chance to regain his full faculties. She was going to kill Shaw now.

She feinted to the right, and he parried, but slower and weaker than before. She could see the death grip he had on his sword hilt, knuckles white with effort. Concussions took time to heal.

His time was up. With her right hand she pressed against his wrists, pinning them with all her weight against his body. At the same time, she drew her left elbow back then thrust hard, burying her blade up into his chest, between his ribs, through his lungs and into his heart. She stopped only when she felt the satisfying clink of her sword tip against the stone wall behind him.

Shaw gasped with surprise, then pain, then shock. Elena leaned back and wrested his sword away out of his hands, tossing it behind her.

"Clown acrobatics…not…real fencing," he gasped, slumping onto her blade. Bloody foam was already filling his mouth and spilling out. "Not … honor—"

"It's _parcours_. And you're just a sore loser, aren't you?" She pulled her sword out of his body, taking a step back, and Shaw lurched forward then fell onto his knees. Before he could topple forward yet again Elena called out, "_!Solamente puede haber una!"_ as she brought her sword down in a two-handed stroke and decapitated Peter Shaw.

Elena put her sword point down into the earth of the barn floor then moved to the center of the structure and stood still, waiting and dreading it. The birds and even the shhh of the wind coming in through the various holes in the old building suddenly stopped, leaving an empty silence, a vacuum, followed immediately by the crash of the all-too-familiar light show. The Quickening filled the barn top to bottom, lightning strokes leaping from wall to wall, splintering the ancient wood.

But the lashing within her soul this time was not that bad. It was almost … gentle. Of Peter Shaw she could hardly detect anything. He was a whisper, a shadow, nothing more. But following that she sensed the overwhelming force of … of music. It was piano music—Mozart, Tchaikovsky, Ravel, Brahms, Beethoven—all playing at once in her head, a cacophony of simultaneous music boxes gone wild. She covered her ears against the racket even though she knew it was all coming from inside. Then Elena concentrated and exerted her will, calling out her own name, forcing her identify forward, fighting against being overcome by Claudia Jardine. No, not by Claudia Jardine—by Claudia Jardine's music.

By the time the lights stopped so did the music, mostly. Elena could still hear echoes of a soft piano in the background. It was the same Debussy piece she had played in Austria, but now Elena knew how she could play it better, with more feeling, more art. More like Claudia.

Elena threw up a quick prayer of thanks. Then she picked up her sword, wiped it on Shaw's scarf and resheathed it. She went outside, walking past Shaw's body. The clouds had finally broken and the sun was just above the trees. It would be a beautiful sunset, and she, not Shaw, would get to enjoy it. Elena wanted to sing to the trees with the joy of being alive and the confidence that came from winning and from proving to herself that she was back, that she was an Immortal again! A triumphant keyboard march she didn't even recognize was going through her head.

She laughed aloud then quickly, surprisingly sobered, realizing the 'thrill' was not gone, but it was muted. Yes, she was alive and happy, and she was horny, and she couldn't wait to get back to Duncan. But for the first time she couldn't seem to get past the idea of the price she'd had to pay, the price all Immortals paid to survive: deliberately removing the heads off other human beings then watching the bodies twitch and die. Whether Shaw was a good man or a bad man, she'd still killed him.

Elena had never felt quite this way before, so … philosophical … about her Immortality. Claudia Jardine? she wondered. No. Maybe she was just getting old, Elena considered, chuckling. It was possible that O'Sensei's aikido pacifism from the middle of the previous century was catching up to her. Or maybe after being a real part of a real mortal family for four decades she was growing up. All her talks with Methos were finally having an effect? Or maybe, as she felt another Immortal sensation drill into her brain, Cassandra's closeness and calmness were influencing her.

The Quickening, the adrenaline, the music, an Immortal's approach—the combination was giving Elena a headache, and she was massaging her temples when Cassandra walked into the clearing. They shared a victory grin, and Elena called, "Ready?"

"Let's go," Cassandra agreed.

Elena went back into the barn and took off her ruined boot, putting on the shoes from her backpack. She sorted through Shaw's coat pockets, removing his keys, pocket watch, phone, and wallet. She and Cassandra wrapped the body in the coat then used an old wheel barrow to carry it and the sword to the grave they had dug earlier that day. "I'll get the head," Elena offered.

When Shaw's body, head, and sword were arranged in the grave, Elena and Cassandra started to shovel. "You don't fight, do you?" Elena asked.

"Quickenings give me nightmares for years, sometimes decades," Cassandra said. "Even when I'm not asleep." She looked up with a rueful smile. "Everyone is much safer if I'm sane."

"Yeah," Elena strongly agreed, wondering how sane she herself was. There was another unknown melody going through her head.

"And with Shaw…" Cassandra tossed a shovelful of dirt on his head. "If he had beheaded me, he might have acquired the power of the Voice. I couldn't let that happen."

"So you recruited me to kill him."

"I asked," Cassandra corrected. "You volunteered."

"I did, didn't I? In fact, as soon as you invited me to London I was thinking about killing him. Before I even knew about Claudia."

"Revenge for Lorenzo, after all these years?" Cassandra asked. "Or just looking for someone to kill?"

Shaw had asked her the same question. She'd lied to him. She wasn't going to lie to Cassandra. "Both," Elena had to admit. "I haven't fought in six years, and I am an Immortal, and so fighting is what I do, even if Lorenzo didn't want me to, even if Marcellino doesn't—"

"Marcellino?" Cassandra repeated then guessed, "You told him."

"This weekend." Elena shoveled some more. The whole body was covered now. "Looks like you were right." She jabbed her shovel into the dirt. "He said he never wanted to see me again."

"Ah, _chica_, I'm sorry," Cassandra said softly. "I wouldn't have called you if I'd known."

"I think it helped, actually," Elena said. "I'm more angry than sad. I fight better that way." Elena concentrated on burying his feet before asking, "What if I had lost?"

Cassandra stopped shoveling to look at her. "Then now I would be weeping as I buried a friend."

"But about Shaw?"

"I would have gone to plan B."

"Duncan," Elena guessed. Maybe Connor, she thought. The Voice? It didn't matter. They finished filling in the hole and stamped down the dirt, then Cassandra covered it all with last year's fallen leaves while Elena cleaned up the blood in the barn then changed her sweaty, blood-stained clothes.

It was nearly dark as they started walking back to the car. "They're addicting, you know," Cassandra said quietly. "The Quickenings."

"I'm not addicted," Elena said.

"I am," Cassandra said. "And so is Methos. That's why we avoid them as much as we can."

"You said that Quickenings make you crazy, that you hear voices."

"I do, for years," Cassandra agreed. "And I'm ill for days afterwards." Her tongue flickered over pale lips. "But even so, I still crave that power." She pulled her cape more closely about her and said thoughtfully, "Resisting must be even harder for Methos. He does very well."

Elena was surprised to hear Cassandra praise Methos for anything, but she wisely kept that thought to herself.

Cassandra looked at her sidelong, and even in the dim light her eyes were incredibly ancient. "Be careful, Elena, of the heads you take and the souls you consume. Because I can tell you, it is not good to need to kill someone simply in order to feel alive."

"I don't," Elena said. "I just feel like a successful—that is, _alive_—Immortal. Although killing Shaw was different, a little. It's kind of a waste, isn't it?" she mused. "Destroying another human being. Having that responsibility." Cassandra was looking at her closely, and Elena demanded, "What? I can't think about this, ponder my role in the universe? Am I that shallow?"

"Of course you can ponder your role," Cassandra said. "But I must say, you haven't often been so … reflective."

Elena smiled at the sort-of compliment. Cassandra was honest and blunt; it was a good trait in a confidante. "True."

"I like the change."

"It might be partially your influence. Anyway, I've never killed lightly, and less so now. So don't worry that I will go challenging someone because I'm bored, or because I want power. Ok?"

"Ok," Cassandra agreed.

"But the truth is, _amiga_, you need not have worried about Shaw taking my 'abilities,' or yours, or anyone else's, for that matter."

"Except Claudia's."

"Well, he wanted to take Claudia's music, but he didn't; it took him. Her genius just poured out onto him, overwhelmed him. And I've got it now." She linked arms with Cassandra and added, "Let's find a piano. I'll play the Moonlight Sonata, and you'll see."

"I would very much like to hear that. After you buy me dinner."

* * *

><p>Elena got home to Caen late on Wednesday night, but still before Duncan. His last message had said he'd be here soon. She was singing as she fixed dinner for them: a lullaby she barely remembered her Mapuche mother singing when Elena was about four years old, then started softly singing Spanish children's songs: <em>"Las Mananitas<em>," "_Arroz con Leche," _the little ditty "_Marcelino."_ But surprisingly, that music was drowned out by piano music. Mozart. Damn, this could get annoying, Elena thought as she sensed the arrival of an Immortal.

And when she saw Duncan come through the door, the melody in her head immediately became Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto No.2, the most romantic piece of music in the world. She ran to Duncan and embraced him more than warmly.

He kissed her then drew back and asked, "Who was it?"

Elena giggled with lust, relief, just plain happiness. "Could you tell if I had been with another man?"

"Maybe," he answered, serious. "But I can definitely tell you killed an Immortal."

"Does it matter who?"

"Is it a secret?" he countered.

She shrugged. "Peter Shaw."

"Connor's mentioned him. I've never met him."

"And you never will," she replied. "I'll tell you all about it later. Can we make love now please? If you're not too tired from saving lives while I was taking a life?"

Duncan frowned slightly. "Elena—," he began. Then with a shake of his head he obviously let it go. "I'm not too tired. Love tonight. Talk tomorrow."

"Deal," she said and led him by the hand into their bedroom.

* * *

><p>Duncan woke Elena before dawn, but she didn't complain. He was placing tiny kisses along the inside of her arm, slowly working his way up to her neck, then her cheek, then her mouth. And then he worked his way down again. Rachmaninoff again. It added a new dimension to lovemaking.<p>

Afterward, as they lay panting in each others' arms, Elena said, smiling, "We should buy a piano."

Duncan looked at her, puzzled. "Really?"

She sighed. "Let me tell you about yesterday," she began.

Duncan closed his eyes when Elena told him about Claudia, and when the tale was finished, he shook his head. "Claudia was sixteen when I met her," he told Elena. "Tessa and I had gone to an arts festival in Portland, and Claudia was in a tent playing a Bach fugue. She was amazing. And stubborn. That never changed." He tightened his arm around Elena and said, "I knew she wouldn't survive very long, but I'm glad to hear her gift isn't gone forever. And that Peter Shaw, her murderer, didn't get to keep it."

That afternoon, when Elena got back from the stable, she went into town and bought an upright piano that just barely fit between the two windows in the front room. The music that had been sounding in her head for days poured forth from her fingertips.

She played every day, and she found herself singing, humming, and air playing the piano throughout the day. Music she'd never heard before ran through her head—victory marches while sparring with Duncan, _Romeo and Juliet_ while making love, even music to ride a horse by. Yet over the next few weeks, the music subsided. Elena could still call it up when she wanted, and her playing had definitely improved, become more art and less mechanical, but Claudia's influence was no longer uninvited, and Elena could simply ignore it when she wanted to.

A few days later, Duncan called her to say, "The crew is having a birthday party for Margot tonight. Can you get home early?"

Parties with Duncan's rescue crew were always a blast, and Elena and Duncan had gone out with Margot and her husband several times. Then there had been that New Year's Party. Margot was a serious, dedicated rescue pilot, but extremely funny when in her cups. "Sure!" Elena said.

That evening she put on her dancing clothes, and they went to Gaia, a nightclub in town. Elena asked for a piano and played Art Tatum, Monk, Duke Ellington. She was the hit of the party. As people whooped, danced, and clapped, Elena said quietly, "Thank you, Claudia."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Next: Elena to the rescue<strong> _


	13. Searching

**Searching**

* * *

><p><strong>3 May 2046, Caen, France<strong>

* * *

><p>The morning after Margot's birthday party, Elena woke up late. Duncan was already gone. She ate and dressed in a hurry, grabbing a raincoat on her way out the door. The weather forecast called for rain.<p>

The storm blew in after lunch, and she was wet and muddy when she got home. She didn't sense Duncan, which meant she could make him dinner and maybe even have time to slip into something sexy.

As Elena got out of the car, she was surprised to see Margot waiting at the door, huddled against the wall for shelter from the fierce wind and pelting rain. Elena waved and smiled in greeting. But suddenly Elena thought about why Margot would be at her door, alone, in terrible weather. Suddenly Margot reminded Elena of one of the military officers they send to the home to tell the family their loved one is gone. Elena hurried over and unlocked the door. "Margot? Please come in."

Margot went in, and Elena followed, waiting to hear the words, taking long breaths for control, to try to keep the fear at bay.

"Luz," Margot began, "I…"

"Please just say it. It's all right." It wasn't all right, of course, but Margot looked so miserable Elena actually felt sorry for her.

Margot had her hands clasped together in front of her as if she were praying. "A ship was sinking earlier today. Duncan was working the harness, as Ahmed is still sick. We got all the passengers off, but we were low on fuel and overloaded." She smiled wanly. "Duncan told us to head for shore. Insisted, actually." She took a deep breath. "He stayed behind."

"On the sinking ship?"

"No, of course not. We left him a life raft."

Elena nodded and slowly sat down on the couch. She nodded again. It sounded just like him. She smiled up at the other woman. "Margot, thank you for coming to tell me that he won't be home tonight. I would have worried." Though more about swords than water. This news was bad, but it was good to know one way or another.

Margot bit her lip and sat down next to her. "Luz… he should have been home tonight. We were going to back to get him right away, but… the storm… it blew up so quickly. We couldn't—" She swallowed hard then smiled at Elena. "We'll go as soon as we can. Those rafts are sturdy. Its beacon is still transmitting. He'll be fine."

Elena could tell that Margot didn't believe those reassuring words. They both knew how horrible _La Manche_ could be. "That water's so cold. There's nothing we can do, is there," Elena said, hating how helpless she was, seeing that Margot hated it too.

"Not yet," Margot said. "As soon as the storm clears, we'll fly to the site. And I'll let you know what happens."

"Thank you for coming," Elena said again, the phrase mechanical and stiff, and Margot left with a hug and more empty reassuring words. Elena shut the door and slowly turned around.

The little house was empty, and terribly quiet.

Elena took a shower, as usual, but couldn't eat. Duncan had a dangerous job. This was bound to happen. "_Ayudalo, Dios mio_," she murmured. Help him. She had just poured a glass of wine, only one, she promised herself, when their landlady, Mme. Affellah, came to call, bearing a casserole of couscous and lamb.

"Such a terrible thing," she said, placing the dish in the kitchen. "To be lost at sea… But so brave, to give up his seat that way!" She shook her head then asked with unseemly eagerness, "Have you heard any more?"

"No," Elena said. "How did you hear?" Surely Margot hadn't made the rounds to everyone Duncan knew.

Mme. Affellah looked at her in surprise. "It's all on the news."

Elena flipped on her phone and waved her hand to turn on the wall screen. Once again, she watched newscasters burrow into the lives of people she loved. "We're standing by the station, waiting for the weather to clear, so they can begin the rescue attempt of Duncan MacLeod," said a dark-haired young man with breathless urgency to a perfectly coiffed blonde woman with manicured nails. They could have been French clones of Dacio and Serafina. Elena hated them on sight.

"Let's talk again to the people this heroic young man rescued earlier today," the female said.

The screen showed a middle-aged couple, and they spoke in English about the terror of their boat sinking and how happy they were when the rescue helicopter arrived. "It's such a wonder that Donald's camera still worked!" the woman exclaimed. Then came video, shaky and from up high, of Duncan crawling into a life raft then waving urgently for the helicopter to go home. The vantage tilted as the helicopter flew away, and Duncan soon became a tiny dot on an endless sea.

The English woman was dabbing at her eyes. "I do hope they find him tomorrow," she said. "He saved our lives." A photo from Duncan's personnel file appeared on the screen (short hair and no mustache), just above the dancing advertisement for Fruitee Oatee Bars.

"We're all hoping that," their interviewer said with utmost gravity. She looked straight at the camera lens to say: "I think none of us will get much sleep tonight. For as we wait helplessly for the weather to clear, all of France and all of England must be asking: 'What is happening to Duncan MacLeod?'"

What's happening is that he's dying, drowning, freezing to death, Elena thought. Aloud she swore, "_Merde_," clutching the wine glass tightly in her hand.

"And you both so young," Mme. Affellah said, patting Elena's shoulder.

"Thank you," Elena said, trying not to grit her teeth too obviously. "For coming here, and for the food. I'm sorry; I really would like to be alone now."

But even as Elena was locking the door again, her phone rang. Elena looked at the caller ID. Of course. She sighed and picked up the phone.

"Well?" Connor's voice demanded.

"He's at sea," Elena said simply, for there was nothing more to say.

"Think they'll find him tomorrow?"

"Maybe. But if he's not in the raft and they can't pick up his beacon nearby, they won't bother to look anymore." Duncan had explained the protocol to her. They'd logically assume he'd died of exposure during the night and sunk beneath the waves. She shuddered, remembering when she had crash landed into the frigid Mediterranean, a little over two years ago. This was the much colder English Channel. Cold water and darkness were a deadly combination; to this day she had nightmares about it. If he was in the water, Duncan wouldn't survive any more than she had, so she told Connor, "If he's not in the raft, he won't last the night."

"I know."

But two years ago Duncan had come looking for her. Now she had to find him, dead or alive, and get him out of that dark water. For that she needed a boat. A fast boat. "I'm going to get a boat to search when the storm clears," Elena told Connor, "just in case."

"Get three," Connor ordered. "Cassandra and I are on our way."

* * *

><p>All night, the newscasters kept displaying Duncan's picture and the rescue video, over and over again, building suspense for a public addicted to vicarious thrills. Weather updates were given on the quarter hour. They interviewed doctors about hypothermia, and they examined the life raft and demonstrated its beacon and roof. They climbed into the rescue harness and rode it up and down. They even brought in a mathematician to explain fuel consumption and why the helicopter had had to leave one of their own behind.<p>

They had cameras on the ground recording the rescue helicopter when it lifted off into pre-dawn rain, and they had more cameras in a helicopter that soon took off in pursuit, transmitting the hoped-for rescue of "that selfless and brave young hero" to the world.

The rescue helicopter soon zeroed in on the beacon of the life-raft, but it was empty, swept clean by the waves. The newscasters shook their heads gravely as they relayed the terrible news. "Our brave young hero was lost at sea during the storm." The rescued British woman sobbed into her handkerchief; her husband patted her on the back. Grief counselors were available by phone, it was announced, for just a small fee. Call now.

The rescue team briefly flew a search pattern, looking for the smaller beacon in Duncan's life jacket, but nothing was found. The newscasters went silent for three entire seconds while the lost hero's comrades solemnly tossed Duncan's coffee cup into the ocean, a ritual, the newscasters explained that had started twenty-six years before, when another rescue worker had been lost at sea. Then the helicopters all turned around and headed for shore. The newscasters began to chatter about an elephant who could read.

* * *

><p>On a small boat in the English Channel, Elena switched her phone from Newsvid to Talk then called Connor to coordinate the real rescue of Duncan MacLeod.<p>

For thirty-one hours, Elena and Cassandra and Connor criss-crossed the waves in search of Duncan, using both positioning systems: global and immortal. The boat captains shook their heads at the foolishness but took the money. One of the sailors brought food to Elena and she swallowed it down mechanically to keep up her strength, making sure to drink lots of French coffee to stay awake.

Cassandra sensed Duncan late in the afternoon of the second day, a faint whisper, and Elena and Connor came swiftly to her position, and the search went on. Eager now, exhausted but sensing they were close, Elena scrambled onto the roof of the cabin, hanging onto a rope and peering into the dark blue waves, desperately looking for a small orange lifejacket, praying. Her eyes watered; she rubbed them, came down for more coffee, and got up on her precarious perch again. But she was the first to see him, and so she was the one to pull him from the water, to hold him in her arms and weep grateful tears.

"How is he?" Connor demanded on the phone. She could just see him standing on the deck of his boat, staring across the waves at her.

Duncan was dead. He had probably been dead for a while, but she couldn't say that in front of the crew. Elena put her ear to Duncan's chest and heard nothing, but she replied, "Barely alive. And not so pretty right now." His hair was plastered to his skull. The skin of his face was stiff, like leather, his lips dry and cracked. She could see his swollen tongue sticking out of his mouth, and his hands were closed into fists. "But he hasn't lost any limbs." No sharks, thank goodness. "He'll be all right." She'd seen Duncan die before; he tended to revive quickly and unexpectedly.

"Good," Connor said, while Elena asked the two sailors to carefully carry Duncan to the cabin. She could see Connor wave a hand to his boat captain, and Connor told Elena, "We're going back," and turned off his phone. As the two other boats headed south, for the continent, Cassandra waved goodbye to Elena, and Elena waved back, thrilled and grateful that Duncan was immortal, that he would survive unscathed, that she hadn't lost him.

Elena told her captain to take them north, to the southwestern coast of England, for Duncan MacLeod was definitely dead in France.

As the boat chugged steadily across the English Channel, Duncan came to life, not "with a bang, but with a whimper," as the poet T.S. Eliot had said of the ending of the world. Duncan's tongue was so swollen he couldn't speak. He immediately began shuddering, and she pulled the blanket up to his neck then covered him with a second blanket. "Sleep," she told him softly "You're safe now."

Duncan looked at her, and he must have recognized her and felt safe, because his eyes fluttered and closed as he relaxed, his claw-like hands finally letting go.

* * *

><p>When Duncan finally woke in an English hotel room, he had no questions. She was ready with water for his thirst then watered wine to warn him. Soup. He stopped eating long enough to take a long hot shower. Then he ate a roast beef sandwich. Two. Then fruit. More soup. More water. She remembered how thirsty and how ravenous she'd been when she'd first come out of the Mediterranean, and the kind Menorcan farmwife who had helped her.<p>

"How long?" he finally asked.

"Two days," she answered. "You were in the water two days, longer than me after my plane crashed." They both shuddered at the memories. She smiled at him reassuringly and said, "I rented a boat and started searching for you as soon as the storm died down. Connor and Cassandra had boats of their own. With three of us, we could triangulate. I found you seventeen hours ago then brought you to this village. The immigration official was very understanding."

"And Connor?" Duncan asked.

"He and Cassandra went back to Austria," Elena said. "Exams or something. Oh, and I have your sword here. I picked up your car and got the sword from the trunk."

"Thank you," Duncan said, coming over to her and taking her hands in his. "I know I can always count on you."

She smiled at him brilliantly, recognizing the same words she had said to him. She was so grateful he was still alive, that she hadn't lost all her loves, even if her son wouldn't—

But this was no time to think of other men, or even to think at all, for Duncan was leading her to the bed. There, he showed her the best way he knew how just how grateful he was, and they didn't need any words.

* * *

><p>At sunrise, they went to the balcony and looked out at the sea. In the early morning light, the water was beautiful, gray and silver. And deadly, let's not forget that, she thought. Duncan hadn't asked, so she told him, "Your memorial service is Tuesday. I told Pierre and Margot I'd be there. Henri Oiseaux will be there too." Duncan grimaced, and Elena understood why. The idea of being buried made her queasy too, but that was part of their lives. Their deaths, actually.<p>

"No chance of a miraculous rescue at sea?" Duncan asked.

"After a storm like that and days in the water?" Elena shook her head. "Too many questions, from too many people. A lot of people."

Duncan shrugged. "Who would care?"

"Oh, about half of Europe," Elena said with a grin. "You died a hero, and you're all over the news." She turned on her phone and showed him some of the video of the last few days. The final clip was an interview with Pierre, who said, "We would like to name the station in honor of the intrepid Duncan MacLeod."

"Damn it," Duncan swore.

* * *

><p>The next day, Elena left for France to go to Duncan's memorial service. It was beautiful and simple, in a small seaside chapel. Henri and Jacques had come, but Lucille was too sick. "She really liked Duncan," Henri told Elena. "So did we all. I'm so sorry," he said, his face full of the fear and knowledge that soon, too soon, someone would be saying the same thing to him.<p>

Elena squeezed his hands and kissed Jacques on the cheek. She also kissed Margot and Pierre and Mme Affellah. Even Lucien, her _parcours_ mentor, made it to the service, although he'd never met Duncan, and so did the couple whose husband Duncan had sacrificed himself for. Elena was grateful and said so in a few words at the front of the chapel. All cameras were banned from the service, and Elena avoided them outside when they went to throw a wreath into La Manche in Duncan's memory.

Then she went back to the house, where Mme. Affellah brought more food. Elena was glad she wouldn't have to cook that night. She thanked Mme. Affellah then packed some of Duncan's belongings, including his extra set of IDs. When she returned to the English seaside hotel, she found Duncan was letting his beard grow.

"You won't look like Zorro anymore," she sighed in disappointment.

Duncan, still amazingly handsome, just smiled at her then put the suitcase she had brought on the bed and opened it.

Elena sat on the bed next to the suitcase. "Amanda sent flowers to your memorial service," Elena reported. "An enormous bouquet of red roses."

Duncan said simply, "Oh," and didn't even look up from the clothes and papers he was sorting through.

Elena smiled to herself then graciously let it go, saying next, "People said very nice things about you. And so did I."

Duncan stopped what he was doing and looked at her. "Thank you," he said, and leaned over to kiss her. Then he sat down next to her, the New Zealander passport for one Justin Morris in his hand.

She flashed him a mischievous grin. "I told them the interesting stories at the wake."

"At least Duncan MacLeod won't ever have to face them again," he said, waving his new passport at her.

"And Justin Morris won't ever meet them," Elena noted.

Duncan nodded soberly. "I'm dead in France for fifty years."

That was part of their lives too. Moving, leaving, abandoning…

Duncan pulled her to him, holding her tight. She could feel his breath against her hair. "Where would you like to go?" he asked quietly.

She hoped he wouldn't be hurt, but she had commitments. He'd understand. She hoped. "Back to France," she said, pulling back to look at him. "Look, the race is in four months, and Mignone—oh, she's almost ready! She could win it, with just a bit more training, and I—"

"And you want to help," Duncan said with an understanding smile "And go to the race with her."

"I promised Henri," Elena said. "It's just a few months. I could still use your house."

"Yes, you could," Duncan agreed.

Elena smiled at him invitingly "After that…"

He kissed her lightly on the forehead, then more firmly on the mouth. "After that," he agreed.

Elena didn't worry about the future details. They'd be together again, she knew, someplace, sometime. Right now, she was interested in what they could do today. And tonight. And in the morning.

She left England three days later. The first thing she did on arrival in Caen was to take some of the lavender she'd dried last year and make a sachet then mail it to Duncan.

* * *

><p>As she was getting dressed the following morning to go back to the Oiseaux, she sensed an Immortal. "Damn, it's early!" she groused. Looking out through the front window, she saw a stocky man with a short red beard and light brown hair standing on the other side of the street. She didn't know him and was in no real rush to meet him, so she leisurely finished getting dressed then grabbed her sword, put on her cape and went outside.<p>

He looked her over as she crossed the street to meet him, then smiled a little and nodded once in recognition before he greeted her: "Bonjour, Luz Marina—Elena Duran—Gutierrez. And welcome back. I've been waiting for you."

Damn those paparazzi. Her face was public knowledge now; or perhaps he knew her from her Immortal 'reputation'? And damn those chatty neighbors. "You are?" she asked.

"Eric Hunter. I'm looking for Duncan MacLeod."

He sounded Australian, or maybe Texan. Duncan had lived in both places, and he'd recently spent a quarter of a century in New Zealand. But was this Eric Hunter an old friend, or an old enemy? _Piensa mal y acertaras!_ when it comes to Immortals, her father used to say. Think the worst. Enemy, then. "MacLeod was lost at sea," she began cautiously.

"Yes, his death was all over the news. A tragedy. And what a hero! Your own death was all over the news, too, and yet, here you are." Hunter waited for her to respond but when she said nothing, he asked, "Where is MacLeod?"

A thousand questions and a hundred comments came into Elena's head. She remained silent. She'd have to tell Duncan about Hunter, but she did not have to tell Hunter about Duncan.

Hunter squared his shoulders. "I have no quarrel with you, Duran. For now," he said, perfectly pleasantly.

Elena did not miss the real threat, plus she knew better than to get between Duncan and his many duels. The one time she'd tried protecting him in this way he'd gotten so furious at her, he'd actually frightened her. She guessed she was more afraid of Duncan than of Hunter! That thought made her smile. Well, Eric Hunter was Duncan's business, not hers. She shrugged. "_If_ MacLeod survived La Manche, and _if_ I should run across him…"

Hunter smiled and reached into his coat pocket. She tensed slightly, but he only produced a card and offered it to her. "_When_ you run across him, please give him this," he said. "I realize he can't come to France. I'd be eager to come to him."

Elena took the card. They nodded to each other, understanding, and Hunter left.

Elena went inside and called Duncan. Enemy. She sighed, wished Duncan luck, and said a prayer for him. Then, dismissing the Immortal business from her mind, she drove to the Oiseaux stables.

"Luz!" Jacques called out, running up and giving her a big hug. Elena had to blink back hot tears of grief and pain, remembering when Marcellino used to give her hugs like that, when she could tell him she loved him and know he would say the same to her. When she had been part of a family, with a home and pets and a troublesome mother-in-law and Sunday dinners after church and all the other regular, wonderful things that made up a normal life.

But that story was done. Finished. At least for now. Unless Marcellino contacted her. It was still possible.

Henri asked, "Are you sure you're coming back so soon?"

Elena nodded. "Working with horses always makes me feel better." She was living alone again, and she had to go on. And keeping busy was always good. But it wasn't easy to smile as she asked, "Don't tell me you don't need me anymore?"

"Of course we need you!" Henri exclaimed, and she blinked back more tears at the warm welcome of his words. _"Bienvenue a nouveau!"_

* * *

><p>The next afternoon her phone rang. "Duncan!" she cried out happily.<p>

"Elena!" he answered happily. "Meet me in Evreux tonight, the Campanile hotel."

Elena finished early at the stables, took a quick shower, and caught the 5:12. She ate on the train, because she could tell by Duncan's voice that dinner was the last thing on his mind. Eric Hunter had obviously come to an untimely end. At the hotel, Duncan opened the door for her as she came up the stairs, grabbed her in the doorway and pulled her in, kissing her passionately.

The next morning, they said goodbye again. "What now?" she asked him at the train station.

"Walkabout," he answered. "But European style."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Next: Elena finds her way<strong>_


	14. The Home Stretch

**September 2046, Saint-Cloud Racecourse near Paris, France**

* * *

><p>Elena and the Oiseaux family had all kept very busy with the work of the stable and with training Mignone, and when the day of the race arrived in September, she was ready. The high-strung filly was also probably the most calm of them all. Jacques was practically hopping around, Henri was talking to the jockey non-stop, and Lucille, weak though she was, kept obsessively reading the racing program and checking the odds.<p>

Elena kissed the filly, hugged her, and wished her luck. She shook the jockey's hand encouragingly and wished him well. Then she firmly led the family to their owner's box high in the stands. The Oiseaux were still all anxious, and Elena couldn't take it anymore. "I'm going down to the field," Elena announced and bent to kiss Lucille on each cheek before leaving.

In the crowd of hundreds of standing spectators, all waiting for the horses to be brought to the gate, Elena found some peace and quiet. Elena said her prayers then reached up to rub the silver horse Lorenzo had given her. Elena took a deep breath; she was ready for anything.

"I knew you'd be working with horses," said a familiar voice in Italian from the crowd pressing behind her.

Elena wasn't ready for this. Slowly she turned, totally, completely shocked. Was it…?

It was. It was Marcellino, and he was smiling at her. "So, I saw a photograph in a racing magazine of a beautiful silver grey filly from France," he said. "Standing behind Reine des Etoiles, her face partly in shadow, was an unnamed 'groom.'"

He had come for her! But he was being cool, taking it slow, and she could match his tone. Anything to keep from driving him away. She smiled her most motherly welcome smile. "I was trying for total shadow, actually. Thank God I failed."

"_Vale,_" he said with a nod.

It was one of her Spanish phrases; he must have remembered it from his childhood. She started toward him but he forestalled her with, "I told my wife I would come see the filly run, and if I liked her, maybe make an offer."

"You can talk to the owner, but she's not for sale," Elena answered automatically, but she could tell that was not what was troubling him now. Marcellino hadn't told his wife all the truth, and he didn't like it. "Not being able to be totally honest—that's going to be the hardest part," Elena admitted, wanting to be honest herself, although she hadn't told her son all the truth either.

"I know," he agreed. "I'm not much for secrets. I'll have to … I'm not sure how I'm going to manage that."

Neither was she. If all went well she'd tell him about swords and headhunting another day. Maybe she should start with the story of how she'd avenged his father and protected others by killing Shaw. Or maybe not.

"But right now I wanted to tell you something else," Marcellino was saying. "I have been doing some thinking." He smiled ruefully. "You always told me I 'thought' too much, Mamma."

He'd called her "Mamma" again. Elena's heart soared right out of her chest.

"I understand that for you," he said, lowering his voice, "we, Papa and I, are just a small part of your life—"

"Not a small part! An important part!" she protested. "A very important part!"

"I believe you. But a short part, anyway. You have to look at your future, and consider your own life, after Papa and after me. I understand that. And this … this immortality must be secret. So you couldn't come to the funeral or my wedding. I see that."

"Thank you," she said and then immediately followed it with, "I'm sorry. I truly wanted to come, to see you and Angelina."

He nodded unhappily. "I know." Then he reached into his pocket and handed her a package, smiling slightly. "It's a vid of the wedding."

_"Grazie mille!"_ she said, hugging the package joyfully to her chest then putting it in her jacket pocket. She came closer to him but did not yet touch him. She knew he wasn't finished having his say, wasn't ready for the big reunion quite yet. He was like a thoroughbred, on a hair trigger and easily spooked.

"But I wish you had told me, right after the accident." A man in the crowd bumped against him. Marcellino shrugged it off, intent on her. "That's what I didn't understand. I thought you trusted me," he whispered; she had to strain to hear.

"I do," Elena replied strongly. How to explain it? "At first, I didn't want you to have yet another shock. And frankly, I couldn't have … I couldn't even face you … I thought I'd have time to talk to you later, when I felt more … like myself. At that time I was in such deep mourning for your father. Almost thirty-nine years…" Not to mention, she didn't mention, the drownings, the cold, the darkness, being hunted by that damned Immortal. Oh, and the lust for Duncan MacLeod. She'd been a mess; she couldn't have inflicted that on her son. She told Marcellino, "I wanted to be strong for you." The way she always had. The way a mother should.

But he was a grown man now. He had different needs than a boy. "I'm sorry," she told him earnestly. "That means I didn't give you the chance to be strong for me."

He nodded once, his jaw tight. "We could have taken turns, being strong for each other. We could have shared…"

"We could have shared our pain," she whispered, remembering her conversation with Jacques Oiseaux. The Oiseaux men each became stronger because they were able to cry and grieve and pray together. Elena reached out to her son, and this time he took her hands in his, holding them fiercely. "I'm so sorry, _m'hijo,_" she said softly.

"So am I." Then he took a deep breath. "I knew it was you, before we even got in the car. Everything else could be faked: a lookalike, photos, research about the family. But your voice—no one forgets his mamma's voice, and that Spanish accent!"

Elena smiled. She still remembered, from the seventeenth century, her own mother's voice humming to her.

"But when you finally did tell me, I felt you'd deserted me for two years, forgotten about me. That I didn't matter."

"No!" Elena exclaimed. Dimly she realized they were in public, at a racetrack, and that Mignone would be running soon. That she wasn't paying attention to the race. She dismissed it all. Her son mattered most of all. "If anything," she said, "I loved you too much. And telling you at all might still be a mistake. My friends, my immortal friends, said I shouldn't burden you with this secret."

"It is a burden," he agreed. "A family burden."

Ah, God bless our close-knit Italian family of the two of us! Elena thought, triumphant. But there was more to say. She was determined to tell him as much as she could. "Plus, they said after a few years, as you aged and I didn't, you might grow to hate me," she admitted.

"I spoke to one of those 'friends.' More accurately, he spoke to me."

"What?" Elena said, suddenly afraid. "Who?"

"MacLeod."

Duncan! Elena breathed a sigh of relief. No upcoming duel there.

"…been your friend a long time," Marcellino was saying. "He explained some things I didn't quite understand. He said I wouldn't, or couldn't. But he was very persuasive."

Elena wasn't sure if she was grateful to Duncan or irritated at his meddling. No, she was definitely grateful. "He is a good friend."

"A really _good_ friend?" Marcellino asked, a small catch in his voice.

Typical Italian male, Elena thought, jealous and overprotective. Well, they were both adults and she'd been a widow for two years, so … she simply nodded then remained quiet while her son mulled it over.

"While Papa was alive—"

"No!" Elena interrupted. "Your Papa was my love for all those years. No one else!" She had absolutely no guilt on that score.

Marcellino seemed satisfied, good. Then he asked, "Did you mean I might envy you?" She nodded again. "Did Papa grow to hate you?"

"No. He always loved me."

"And so will I."

That was all she needed to hear. She rushed into his open arms and gave him the big hug she'd been saving since she'd seen him, alone and forlorn, on television on the deck of that rescue ship. He hugged her back for a long time_. "!Gracias, Jesus!"_ she whispered earnestly.

"Amen," he replied.

Dimly she heard an announcement. "The race!" he said, twisting to watch the horses being loaded into the gate.

Elena stood on tiptoes to catch a glimpse of Reine des Etoiles, tossing her head and flicking her ears, then settling down under a pat from her jockey. Elena kept hold of her son's hand and smiled at him through her tears. "Please come celebrate with Mignone's family after the race."

He smiled at her, rubbing tears from his own eyes. "She's going to win, eh?"

"Of course."

"Of course," he repeated with a smile. "Oh, I have a photograph for you." He reached into a pocket and handed Elena a photo of himself and Angelina.

It was a formal portrait, he very handsome in a nice pinstripe suit and the tall blonde Angelina in a loose— Elena's vision blurred. On the track behind her the gates opened and the eager racehorses pounded out in a burst of speed and power. Elena didn't even look. "When?" she asked Marcellino in a whisper.

"Middle of November," he answered, laughing over the roar of the crowd. "It's a girl. You're going to be a grandmother!"

"A girl!" Elena said eagerly, happily. _"!Dios mio!_ How wonderful, Marcellino!"

"We're calling her Elena Gina Ponti," he said right into her ear.

Elena leaned against her son and sobbed while Marcellino continued to laugh. He had to hold her up to keep her from collapsing. And she missed the race.

* * *

><p>Mignone had come in second, missing first by only half a length. In the owners' box, Elena introduced Marcellino as her second-cousin from Italy. Henri popped the champagne, and they toasted Mignone. Then they took turns toasting each other and the jockey until all the champagne was gone. They watched a vid of the race, and Elena finally got to see Mignone's triumph. Marcellino gave Elena another hug before they all went home.<p>

Elena said farewell to Mme. Affellah then joined Duncan at the Phinyx school in the Austrian Alps, where he was teaching dance to hundreds of very enthusiastic girls. "I came to visit Connor this summer and ended up with a job," Duncan explained. He bowed low then smiled and extended a hand in invitation, "Senorita, would you dance the tango with me at the next class? They need to see how it's done." Elena took his hand with a wickedly sexy smile, and that afternoon they showed the girls how it was done.

Elena reunited with Lucien and his young wife, and on the second day Elena and Lucien, along with a few of his students, including, surprisingly, Cassandra! went _parcours_ in the village. There was only one minor fall, and the mayor did not seem to mind.

At two a.m. on the third day at Phinyx, Elena and Connor walked into the dojo, each carrying a real sword, again. Connor turned off the cameras while Elena locked the doors. Then Elena drew her broadsword and tapped it on the wooden floor_. "Desperta ferro!"_ she said.

Connor took his katana out of its carrying case then slowly drew the blade from the scabbard. "_En garde_," Connor said, and they fought.

A week later, as the four Immortals sat for dinner, Elena said, "Lucille Oiseaux, one of Mignone's owners, died yesterday. I need to go to France for the funeral."

Duncan sighed and shook his head, while Cassandra nodded, saying, "You did say she was ill."

"The cancer finally took her," Elena explained to Cassandra and Connor. "She was just holding on until the race. And Henri and Jacques will probably need help at the stable, so I may stay for a while. And my granddaughter is due to be born in November, so—"

"So after France, you're going to Italy," Duncan finished for her, understanding immediately. "And then?"

"Argentina," Elena announced. "And I'm going to stay for a while. I haven't lived there for decades, and I want to go home."

Later that night, when they were alone, Elena gave Duncan a brilliant smile. "Come spend Christmas with me?"

"Yes," Duncan agreed. "Though I'll have to come back here in January; I promised the girls I'd dance with them at the Twelfth Night Ball. But after that…"

"After that," Elena agreed, and that evening they bid each other a sweetly enthusiastic farewell.

At Lucille's funeral, Elena saw that Henri and Jacques were indeed in shock, and they gratefully accepted her offer of help at the stables. But come November, Elena said farewell to her French friends, humans and horses alike, with tears and promises of visits, then left for Italy and waited there.

On November 13, 2046, she was in the maternity ward of the San Pietro Hospital in Rome, where her proud son was showing off his Elena Gina.

"She's beautiful," Elena said. A shock of black hair and Lorenzo's brown eyes. Good strong lungs. A perfect little Italian princess. "Thank you," she said as Marcellino handed her the baby. "Welcome to the world, _nietecita_," Elena whispered, staring into the wise eyes in the ancient newborn face. "Welcome to your home."

* * *

><p><strong>Christmas Eve, Argentina<strong>

* * *

><p>Elena, dressed in a brilliant red peasant skirt and white blouse, paused as she was bringing the soup spoon from the pot to her mouth then closed her eyes. The Immortal thrum filled her head, but she felt no danger. Not from Duncan MacLeod, who early that morning had come to her estancia, as promised, to help her celebrate <em>la Navidad<em>, Christmas.

The smell of the meats, the _asado_ and the roasted pork, competed with that of freshly baked bread to fill the spacious, sunny kitchen. The _Nochebuena_ feast would be ready for tonight. "We'll be back later for the meal," she said to the cook, Aurelia, and Elena put the spoon down without tasting.

She started to walk then ran out of the house, past the beautifully appointed table set with delicate rose china and elegant crystal, past the decorated tree and the presents underneath, past the bells and colored balls, past the wreaths and other greenery, and under the carefully hung mistletoe—a tradition she had learned in America—to meet her love.

Duncan swung his leg over his mount and jumped to the ground, smiling at her, for her, and she leaped into his outstretched arms. He swung her around, her skirt billowing, and they kissed thoroughly, while the two horses stood patiently waiting. "You going riding in a skirt?" Duncan asked.

"Why not? Is traditional for an Argentine woman to look feminine for her man." But she undid the button at her waist and slid the skirt off, revealing black skin-tight riding pants underneath.

"That's a feminine look, too," Duncan said, with an appreciative glance at her backside.

Elena laughed and left the skirt on the porch, then, for a lark, took a running start and leaped onto the back of the gelding Duncan had brought for her. But the horse didn't like the running or the leaping or something. He spooked and unexpectedly reared up then bucked and kicked for several minutes, while Elena fought him. When she finally got the gelding under control, patting his neck and talking softly to him, Elena was already both exhilarated and exhausted.

Duncan, who had stayed well out of the way, was laughing softly while Elena patted the horse. A young Indian girl came up when the gelding had settled down and brought Elena her hat.

"_Gracias, nina,"_ Elena replied, taking her riding hat and putting it on.

Duncan mounted and leaned back in the saddle. "And here I thought you'd be a riding expert by now."

Elena's eyes narrowed. "I'm still better than you, and I'll beat you to the cabin," she declared. With a soft kick and a cry of _"!Epa!"_ she urged her horse into a fast trot, with Duncan following close behind.

They trotted past the outbuildings, the planted crops, and onto the grassy pampas, where they finally broke into a full gallop. Long hair flying free, a good horse under her, and the man she loved beside her. No Immortals trying to kill her. No loved ones dying on her. Her first grandchild, named after her. It didn't get any better. Elena Duran laughed out loud, thinking, "It's good to be home at last!"

* * *

><p><strong>NOTES<strong>

**OTHER STORIES FEATURING ELENA in this story-universe**

"Hope Remembered III: Confidante" (set in Nov/Dec 1996) Soon after being tortured by Bethel, Elena gets a visit from Cassandra, who is trying to recover from her recent encounter with the Horsemen. (Hurt/comfort)

"Hope Triumphant II: Sister" chapter 2 (set in November 2006) To celebrate ten years of freedom, Elena and Cassandra go on a cruise ship in the Mediterranean, where they meet a very old acquaintance. (Humor)

"The Only Game in Town" (set in January 2007) Elena is hunting Peter Shaw and pays a visit to Connor's family in Edinburgh along the way.

"Hope Triumphant III: Anamchara" (set in 2042) After losing everyone she loves, Elena visits Cassandra and Connor at the Phinyx school, then find Duncan.


End file.
